


Across the Sea of Simulation

by waterfallliam



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Tron/Tron: Legacy inspired AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterfallliam/pseuds/waterfallliam
Summary: “Are you really okay?” John asks. He understands putting up a front for people.“No. Not at all,” McKay says miserably. “This world is amazing, but…”“We’re trapped.”“Yeah. And there’s the creepy aliens who are going to make us fight in literal gladiator battles.”When the expedition arrives in Atlantis, the Gate freezes behind them. McKay thinks he has the solution, but he and John end up somewhere else entirely...
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30
Collections: McShep Big Bang 2020





	Across the Sea of Simulation

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the 2020 McShep Big Bang. Thank you to everyone who has organised this & contributed! You do not need to know anything about Tron or Tron: Legacy to understand this fic. Please check out [the amazing cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409005) for the story danceswithgary made, it's gorgeous!!

**Part 1**

**Into the Grid**

“What’s the latest on the Stargate?” Dr Elizabeth Weir asks, not bothering with small talk to kick off the first official meeting in the lost city of the Ancients, Atlantis. Her voice is firm and calm, inquisitive without losing any of the concern or seriousness the situation warrants. He likes her, John decides, confirming his thoughts about her from back in Cheyenne Mountain. From back on Earth.

They’re far, far away from that blue green dot now, slung all the way to another galaxy. The city had been waiting for them as if suspended in time, a snapshot of 10,000 years ago. Floating atop an ocean just as the Ancients had left it, give or take a few hundred dead plants. It feels weird to be one of the people bringing the city back to life; his career has been built on worst case scenarios and death for so long.

“It’s still unresponsive,” the chief scientist with a loud voice and a receding hairline, Dr McKay, says. His mouth is turned downward, unhappy, or maybe that’s just his face. McKay had been the one to talk to John in the chair, looking at John as if he was both the worst and best person he’d ever met. Asking John to think about solar system, he had been earnest and intensely focused, confident in his belief in him. “We’ve started running an analysis, but until we have proper labs, it’s hard to tell how long it will be before we have any results.”

Here, McKay is sitting up too straight for it to be natural, his hands still underneath the table. Altogether he makes the impression of being conceited, talkative and condescending, but John senses an undertone of nerves.

Weir sighs in response. “We’re all working as hard as we can to get everything up and running. But,” she looks at John, “I’m sure the Major won’t mind helping.”

It’s not as if the Colonel or the marines will miss him. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Is it vulnerable?” Colonel Sumner asks, face cold as granite.

“No one can get in,” McKay clarifies, “but no one can leave, either.”

“So we can’t dial Earth, we can’t dial anywhere in the Pegasus galaxy, and the city only has enough energy to last us for four months?” Weir asks, eyebrows raised.

“If we keep energy usage to a minimum, yes. The Naquadah generators can only do so much. And then there’s the issue of supplies. We can’t last here alone, forever. Even if we farm the mainland, it won’t be enough. The situation is dire.”

The short scientist with unruly hair beside McKay adds, “We also have no way of predicting if there will be spikes or situations where more power will be consumed.”

“We need a ZPM,” McKay finishes, saying it the Canadian way.

“Yes,” Weir agrees, her hands clenched, determined to see the positives, to not see this expedition fail.

“We’ll continue our search, see if we can find anything to help the situation,” the small scientist, Zelenka, says. Between him and McKay, he’s definitely the optimist.

“Look for things to defend the city, too,” Sumner instructs.

“ _Should_ we prioritise looking for weapons, Doctor Weir?” McKay asks. “So that we can die happily surrounded by more firepower than anyone could ever need?”

John has had little time to read about SG-1, but from the reports he’s skimmed firepower is something they’ll be needing more than plenty of. But he appreciates that McKay doesn’t let Sumner strongarm him.

“Our survival should be our first priority. We’ll evaluate what we find as we continue.”

“We haven’t finished assessing how much of city is accessible,” John chimes in. Mostly it’s living space they need. The marines are still sharing beds in shifts, and John’s as sick of sharing with them as they are of sharing with each other.

Weir nods, considering. “Prioritise getting the chair room operational, but until we have living quarters for everyone that has to be our other priority. You haven’t been able to recover any of the scrubbed records of the city—unless?”

“No,” Rodney huffs, “still inaccessible.”

They’d found a database with star charts mapping out all the places the Stargate should take them, detailed but undoubtedly outdated intel on many inhabited worlds, their people and environments, but it’s all encrypted of course, and there’s nothing about what most of the stuff inside the city is actually for. Some rooms are obviously supposed to be slept in, others worked in, but the rest has been scrubbed. The city’s not been looted or left to ruin, as a hostile force might leave it, so it’s more likely that the Ancients themselves erased it. Which leaves the question of who they wanted to stop from getting to the information.

“Then if there’s nothing else, we’ve all got plenty to do.” Weir stands with a smile, dismissing them politely.

“You’re with me, Major,” McKay directs, stopping short of grabbing John’s arm and heading out the rotating conference doors instead.

“Alright McKay.” John follows.

“ _Doctor_ McKay,” McKay corrects.

John suppresses a snort McKay’s interesting, if also infuriating. “Astrophysicist, right?”

So far, McKay has set himself apart from the other scientists by being prone to rants and causing members of his team to fume or weep—the former John’s heard, the latter only witnessed second hand. But McKay also tries to stand taller and straighter when Weir is around—that is, until she says something and his posture drops. His body falls back into a more natural rhythm of speaking, the slope of his shoulders as resolute as when strained, just… more human. More like in Antarctica. He’s not muscular the way most of the marines are, or John is in places, but he’s got a broad frame and a strong will. Not classically handsome, but John’s never been one for conventional thinking.

“And head of the department.”

“I thought you had a lab.” McKay and the others had staked their claim on one of the levels of the main tower, stripping wiring and crystals all over the place to begin figuring out how to add the Naquadah generators into the systems. So far they’ve secured the tower, but are limiting themselves to exploring the inner city and two of six wings so as to keep the activated parts of the city, and thereby their power consumption, to a minimum. One they’ve hooked up the generators they’ll be able to go out to the edges.

“That lab’s nowhere big enough for the whole department,” McKay rolls his eyes.

Walking through the hallways of Atlantis still imbues John with a quiet sense of wonder. He’s mostly been hauling ass from place to place, turning things on at people’s behest. A full seven hours sleep helped it sink in: he had opened his eyes and it was all still there, the geometric walls and endless ocean. A whole new life in another galaxy with a CO who has it in for him (nothing new) and sleek stealth ships in the hangar bay, making his skin itch with the need to get in the cockpit.

On Antarctica he’d woken up cold but grateful. The sky was just as icy as the ground, but at least up there he’d felt alive, had tasted the satisfaction of doing the one thing that he knows is right for him. Despite everything, flying is his. He’d known there’d been the risk of never flying again, of death even, but his contentment with his posting to fly choppers couldn’t last forever, even if it lasted up until he was reassigned.

Here, he isn’t sure how he feels yet. Something’s different, but it’s all too new, still alien. He can see the open ocean from the window. It’s a sight he’ll never forget: blue, blue as far as the eye can see, whispering secrets to him he doesn’t know how to translate. And reaching, per the scans, way beyond past the horizon.

“Through here,” McKay says. John catches himself before he walks right by the door McKay’s standing at.

“Wait here,” John warns. They’ve not finished cataloguing all the inner city, and he doesn’t trust that the city’s previous owners haven’t left them any surprises.

“But—”

John stops him with a hand against his chest. “Safety first.”

He wants to smile the same way he does at Sumner or anyone in a position of authority, all happy go lucky and designed to push as many buttons as possible. But in the back of his mind he’s still thinking of how McKay had stood up for Weir, so he feels one side of his mouth go up, the other stay down, his face confused by the signals his brain is sending out.

John turns the torch on his P-90 on. Sweeping the room, there’s consoles and tanks filled with liquid and errant bubbles. There’s nothing else of note, so he goes to the nearest panel and presses his palm against it. Most rooms just need him to be near, the proximity of his ATA gene enough for the city to reawaken.

“Oh,” McKay says. “I thought this was going to be more interesting.”

“There’s tanks.” John pokes at one of them, like he’d tap the glass at an aquarium. “Who knows what they were cooking up.”

“Yes, empty tanks. Boring.” McKay sing songs the last word.

“Not if you’re a fish.”

McKay rolls his eyes. “This isn’t an aquatic lab. I thought you had to be smart to be a pilot.”

“Hey,” John protests. It’s not the first time his sense of humour misfires or he’s misjudged. Usually he doesn’t mind being underestimated, but with McKay it grates at him. “What do you think they’re for?”

Rodney taps at a console, frown deepening as holographic glyphs scroll across the air. “It’s a research lab for xenobiology. Marine Xenobiology.”

“Like fish,” John grins.

“Lucky guess,” Rodney huffs.

John shrugs. “I loved going to the aquarium as a kid.”

“I preferred the library. Nothing like hours of quiet and the mysteries of the universe.”

John thinks that sounds kind of lonely, but then he’d kept visiting the aquarium well into his teens, and always alone. “That why you took this one way ticket?”

McKay stiffens, and John regrets the question.

“I’ll have you know they head hunted me personally. The research I do here is going to earn me a Nobel, just you wait,” McKay answers tersely.

Just not for physiology or medicine. John checks that there’s nothing he’s missed before heading back to the door where McKay is lingering. “That all you wanted, McKay?”

“No. We’re going to go turn on some more. I want the best lab for my department.”

He keeps John at it for ages. It’s annoying, this detail or that not being good enough. (”What’s wrong with this room?” “It’s too red! And the large windows will keep everyone distracted.”) All the same, he kind of enjoys the running commentary of why the walls are in the wrong place in this one or how that one is obviously meant to be for some kind of experiment involving engineering giant, flesh eating plants. (Would the Ancients really do that? What he’s heard so far indicates that yes, they would.) The one with human sized pods ranks high on the interesting scale, but they’re empty, and it’s otherwise small and specialised, so not ideal. McKay makes a note of it on his tablet, though.

“What about this one?” John leads the way into a large area, doors around the edges going off into ancillary rooms.

“We have to check everything first,” McKay huffs, refusing to be impressed.

John palms the doors open one by one, revealing plenty of room for servers or other equipment. “How about it?”

“This… this is it.” McKay smiles at him, wide and earnest, rigid set of his shoulders and frown smoothed away. It takes John’s breath away.

The busyness of getting the expedition settled is interrupted a day later. John’s hanging about the control room, chatting with Chuck about nothing in particular, and generally avoiding doing anything until someone notices that they need something from him. He’d gone out in one of the ships they’d found earlier, courtesy of his gene, so anything else he’ll see today won’t compare, he’s sure. It had been sleek against the atmosphere and alive under his hands, faster than anything he’s ever flown.

The British man who follows Weir around—Pat? No, Peter—jumps up suddenly, and runs to stick his head in the door to her office where she’s in a deep discussion with McKay and Sumner. “Ma’am, we’ve got something. A ship approaching.”

Weir stands and follows him into the control room. John crowds around the screen with her and the others. “How far out is it?”

“About a day and a half. If we take out one of the ships we found, we could intercept them in about thirty hours.”

“Gateships,” McKay interjects.

John can’t help himself. “Puddlejumpers.” If there’s anything he knows, it’s aircraft.

McKay turns to face him, frowning. “They’re—they go through the Gate, ergo _Gate_ ship”

“But they’re small. They go through the puddle.” The name is serendipitous, surely McKay can appreciate that?

“Gentleman,” Weir interjects. “Colonel, what do you suggest?”

Sumner looks appeased. “We should send out two Gateships, two teams. I’ll lead one, Major Rawlings the other.”

“Major Sheppard’s our best pilot,” Weir points out delicately.

“I’ve seen his record, he’s not suited to the mission.”

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does, he’s used to it by now. From the way Sumner looks at him, that one so called mistake is writ all over his soul, marking him forever.

“It’s your mission. Be ready to depart within the hour.”

“Can _we_ send anyone?” McKay asks, affronted. “This could be our first contact with anyone _alive_ in this galaxy and you don’t want to send someone who’s, I don’t know, trained for this sort of thing? Who could actually see if they have anything of value to trade? Assess their technology?”

“They could also be the reason the Ancients left in the first place,” John counters. Sumner sends him an annoyed glare.

Weir narrows her eyes. “Both good points. Rodney, if you can find two volunteers then each ship will have a scientist, too.”

“That’s—” McKay falters as Weir stares him down. “Fair.”

“Alright. Now, Peter…” she turns away, onto the next pressing matter.

Rodney rushes off to get his teams sorted. Chuck gets roped into helping coordinate the prep. John watches the movement all around him. Even without the Antarctic cold, he feels his gut clench.

“Major.” His earpiece crackles, and John curses himself for leaving it in. Far better to be woken by a radio by the bed than a voice in his ear. “Major Sheppard will you answer—”

John taps his line open. “Sheppard here.”

“I need you down in the lab, now!”

“Which lab?”

“The one with the very red walls you turned on yesterday. It’s urgent!”

John tugs his boots, jacket and gear on, glad he hadn’t opted to undress any further. He jogs all the way there. The corridors look different in dusk, rust and cyan walls divided by the warm lights, their crystal structure straight and clear cut in a way the city’s layout isn't. He arrives at the door to what he hopes is the right lab.

"McKay?"

Silence.

" _McKay?_ "

"Over here."

McKay and Zelenka are standing in the centre of a circular room that hadn't been open before. Consoles surround an inactivate device, making up five sides of a hexagon. The main body of the contraption is a box about chest height, held up on a metal pillar wrapped in cables, with a number of protruding lenses facing a plinth with a smooth crystal on it. McKay's squinting at a tablet hooked up to one of the consoles, while Zelenka's testing the crystals housed in another. It’s quieter here, no hustle and bustle, and the two look wrapped up in their world of scientific discovery.

John lingers in the doorway. "You called?"

"Sheppard! Come here." McKay puts the tablet down.

Zelenka pops his head out with a small smile. "Major."

McKay grabs his arm, tugs.

“What is it?” John lets himself be moved.

“It’s the last thing the Ancients were working on,” Rodney smiles with excitement. “We’ve never seen anything like this before. It has to do with the dematerialisation process all the Stargates use.”

“It’s even linked to the Gate right now,” Zelenka butts in.

“This was urgent enough to wake me?” John grumbles.

McKay nods enthusiastically. “It needs more than one user. My gene therapy took, but…”

“You need two people,” John nods. Trust McKay to get the therapy before any of the better pilots, or before the Doc starts officially rolling it out for all expedition members. What is that guy’s name? Catson? Cardamon?

“Yes and Zelenka hasn’t tried it yet. We think this will explain why we can’t travel through the Gate,”

“That’s great, Dr Weir will—” Wait a minute. “You _think?_ ”

“Well, we can’t be entirely sure until it’s turned on.”

“I’ve almost got it,” Zelenka adds.

John sets his P-90 down. He has his Beretta close to hand if needed, and a knife hanging by the small of his back. He should be piloting one of the Puddlejumpers for Sumner’s recon. He’d checked the other pilots’ records before they’d left. They have to be the best of the best to be on this expedition—albeit the of the best willing to leave Earth, potentially forever—but he’s seen them train. He’s better with the Jumpers, whether it’s luck or the gene or the fact that he feels like he’s connected to the machinery somehow, reading its mind as much as it reads his.

“So… if you fix this, we’ll be able to,” John makes a circle with his finger.

“Explore the Pegasus galaxy as well as making profound discoveries about Ancient technology that will forever change life as we know it?”

“All fixed. We’re ready,” Zelenka says, fully emerging from under the console.

The derision drops from McKay’s face in an instant.

Zekenka directs them to get them into place, and John thinks he must enjoy getting to order his new boss around, judging from the smile on his face.

“What does it actually do?” John asks.

“It turns matter into data and restores it. Look.” McKay pulls out a stylus from his pocket and places it on the ground in front of them. “If you would…”

Zelenka gives them a thumbs up with his free hand. Swallowing, John reaches out and places his hand over McKay’s on the crystal. Its soft glow increases to a bright shine, and the lenses on the device begin to whirr.

“Uh…” John doesn’t dare move his hand.

“It’s working!” McKay sounds excited. John stares, transfixed as a beam of light shoots out of the device and hits the pen. It shouldn’t be possible, but the pen dissolves from one end to the other, captured by the beam of light. Its completely gone in a matter of seconds.

“What was that?” John breathes.

McKay wiggles his hand and John lets go, stuffing his now sweaty palm into his pocket.

“Here,” Zelenka shows them the tablet that’s hooked up to the console he and McKay had repaired. On it is a picture of the stylus, bite marks and all.

“It does transfer matter into digital space,” McKay says, pleased.

It sounds too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”

“We don’t know,” Zelenka admits, still grinning.

“What else does it work on?” John asks.

McKay thinks a moment, then holds up a finger. “I’ve got just the thing.”

They try it on a protein bar, a half empty cold cup of coffee, and Zelenka’s left shoe. He and McKay had to team up to persuade him for that one. They manage to bring all of the items back from digital space safe and sound. The coffee, per McKay, tastes just as bad as it did before. If they don’t bring the object back, it rematerialises automatically after twenty minutes. Each time it’s the same: the beam of light traces along the designated object, lifting its very particles out of the air and into the non-physical physical reality. That part John’s having trouble wrapping his head around.

“So they’re there as data? Like an mp3 file?”

“Except that they’re not just data. Time passes at the same rate,” McKay explains. “They have as much physical form in there as out here.”

“What about people?” John asks. If it’s meant for travel, then that should work, too.

Zelenka looks concerned. “Shouldn’t we run some more tests?”

“We’ll try it with a plant,” McKay decides.

John stares at the very brown looking leaves of the plants flanking the entrance to the lab. “Aren’t they all dead?”

“It’ll do for now, we can go raid the botany lab after,” McKay waves off Zelenka’s concerns with hand. John makes a mental note adding interdepartmental rivalry to his growing lists of concerns for the city’s safety.

They drag the pot into place. Without waiting for the all clear from Zelenka, McKay palms the crystal, eyes happy. Looking like that, full of passion, ready to go hurtling at the unknown headfirst, John wonders if he would follow him anywhere. He lays his hand over McKay’s.

“Uh, Rodney, Major—” Zelenka says, worried.

But it’s too late. The beam of light is already shooting out of the machine, bypassing the dead plant entirely, and dissolving both him and McKay into nothing.

“Where are we?” McKay asks and drops his hand from where it was still holding onto John’s.

It’s night. They’ve been transported to a planet, the only light coming from distant stars and a Gate behind them. The glyphs are the Pegasus ones, so they’re still in the neighbourhood, at least.

“Good question.”

“We should be stuck inside a nice, safe, room sized no-space waiting for Zelenka to pull us out!”

The Gate looks old, not battered and beat by rain and shine for ten thousand years, but slowly overgrown by a couple of bio luminescent vines, as if it’s only been untouched for a few months.

“Should we even be aware in here?”

“Yes, but there shouldn’t be anything here for us to be aware of.”

John peers at the vines and steps closer, watching the light throb through them. “Could it have created this for us?”

“Unlikely…”

He pokes the vines. One of them curls around his finger in response. It tightens, and he yanks his hand away. It throbs with light, recoiling, but less bright.

“Careful,” McKay warns.

John reaches for his Beretta, strapped nice and safe to his thigh, but his fingers close around air. Reaching around, the knife at the small of his back is gone, too. Hastily, he checks his tactical vest. The pockets are all empty, but it feels as heavy as before. “Shit.”

“Major?” Rodney’s voice dials up to panic.

“My weapons, they’re gone. All my gear.”

“That could be a safety protocol,” Rodney frowns. “All the code we checked was related to the place we sent all the object. The beam must have detected and prioritised us over the plant. It is intended to transport living beings… and Zelenka and I set it to detect organic matter, meaning us.”

“So why hasn’t he pulled us out already?”

“The fact that he hasn’t means that he probably can’t.”

Just to be sure, John pokes at the blue, hoping to feel himself slip apart in places and ways that shouldn’t be possible. Instead he feels his fingertip press back in on itself, as if the eye was made of glass. “Why?”

“Well, whatever is wrong with the Gate…”

“…is trapping us here.”

“Wherever here is.”

“What was the clock on that thing, twenty minutes?”

“Unless it doesn’t work on us.” McKay draws in a huge breath. “Great, just great! It’s not even the third day and I’ve gone and gotten myself killed.”

“Hey, hey. We don’t know if we’ll be pulled back in… about fifteen minutes.”

McKay sucks in a smaller breath. “No, but it’s unlikely.”

“We don’t know that we won’t reappear yet.” In fact, they know nearly nothing. About anything. It’s hard to tell where the hell they are. If this planet has nights, it must have days. Didn’t the Ancients only used to gate to human friendly places?

“How long will that last?” John jerks a thumb in the direction of the wormhole. When McKay doesn’t answer, he clarifies: “The light.”

“Oh. A cycle lasts 38 minutes.” He frowns.

“If we disappear in fifteen minutes it won’t matter much either way, but if we don’t, we can stick it out until morning and get a better idea of where we are.”

“I—no! We need to get back.”

“Well, can you do anything with the Gate?”

“There’s no DHD!”

“Then unless you have a better idea, this is the best plan we’ve got.”

“It’s the only plan we’ve got,” McKay grumbles, but does as John says when he directs him to find dry wood and sticks if he can, and leaves to act as kindling. The torch strapped to John’s shoulder survived dematerialisation, so he gives it to McKay while he searches for decent spot to make camp.

Settling in the middle of the clearing in front of the Gate, John finds some stones already there. It doesn’t take long to dig a shallow pit with his hands, free from dewy stalks of grass. The soil is strange and slides off his hands, not even leaving a damp trail behind. With the stones and the kindling McKay brings, he arranges a ring around a cone of twigs, and lights it with the flint he found.

The flame blazes blue all the way through. Weird.

“Okay, so we won’t freeze to death,” McKay says, sitting across from John and stretching his hands out. “Not that it’s that cold. But we’re probably screwed.”

“There’s still a few minutes,” John points out. His internal clock isn’t precise, but that’s more a point in favour of waiting a few more minutes just to be sure before freaking out. “What is this place, anyway?” John asks, aiming for distraction. “You said it should be like an empty room.”

“Oh. It should, like a temporary dump. Not like this, a whole world with who knows what hidden in it. We didn’t find any coding for plants or trees or soil or… anything.”

“Do think they could have transported it here?”

“They zapped an entire planet with one prototype in a lab?” McKay’s expression returns to derision.

“No... They coded it then. We still don’t know why they abandoned Atlantis.” The logs they found had revealed that not all of the Ancients in the city had escaped to Earth. The discrepancy most likely has something to do with the reason why they left.

“The wipe could have been accidental. The machine is connected to the city’s data storage, maybe something went wrong and boom! No data and no Gate.

“But where did the ones who stayed behind go then? If they couldn’t get to Earth…”

The light from the Gate disappears, flickering out of existence with a burst of static.

“That’s not supposed to happen!” McKay jumps up.

John feels the familiar pull of fear, breathes through the quickening of his of his heartbeat. “It’s not like a normal Gate.”

“The twenty minute failsafe must act as a timer. For people to leave.”

“Except we couldn’t leave.”

As his eyes adjust, the shallow glow of the clearing becomes apparent, the intensity of the illuminating increasing at the treeline. Beyond that, the forest stretches towards the horizon in every direction, swathing the world in pale greens and blues.

“McKay, what’s that?”

“Why do you expect me to have all the answers?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“My job,” and his voice isn’t getting shrill this time. Instead it’s rife with condescension, “is astrophysics. My job, is solving the unsolvable, not mucking about in glowing fields with—”

McKay halts mid-sentence. “I think they were drawing power from the Gate.”

Already, the glow of the grass and in the clearing is beginning to dissipate.

“How?” John asks.

“Why?” McKay counters.

Nothing about this damn place makes any sense.

It happens in an instant: a sharp biting pain at his neck, and he’s falling to ground, grabbing at a hard and slimy creature that won’t let go of him.

“Sheppard! Are you—what’s that?” McKay’s voice grows louder as he crouches next to John. Pain leeches from where its attached itself. McKay’s hands joins his as they try to tug his attacker off, but it just drives its spikes deeper into his neck.

“Wait,” John pants. “It won’t let go.”

“What is it?” McKay asks.

John glares at him. “You’re in a better position to tell than I am.” Whatever it is, it feels like it’s leeching his strength. His feet are going numb. Is must be some kind of drug, like predators use to incapacitate their prey.

“Right.” He fumbles for the torch. “It looks like… a bug. A large bug.”

John’s face moves without his permission. Bugs are the worst. Oversized, blood hungry bugs currently sucking the life out of him? The _worst-est_. “Ew.”

“Can’t say I find it appealing either.”

“McKay! Get it _off me._ ”

“I—how? What do I do? Burn it?”

“Do something!”

The thing deepens it’s hold, sending pain through his body like he’s a live wire. He shakes and shudders, his world reduced to movements and sensations. Something warm and heavy lands on his face—not another bug? But the touch is soft and warm. He stills.

“Oh, good, you’re not seizing.”

John manages to crack an eye open.

“That’s where my medical knowledge ends, unless it’s about backpain, or migraines, hypoglycaemia, or how to click your joints back into place or—”

John glares.

“Okay, okay.”

More carefully this time, McKay examines the bug stuck in his neck more closely, using his hand to gently turn John’s face so he can get a closer look. The grass in his line of vision has completely faded.

A fresh stab of pain at his neck. “Can we die in here?”

“I don’t know. There’s no reason to think we can’t.”

“There’s no reason to think we can.” Except the bug that’s making his movements sluggish. He doubts he could sit up if he wanted to, the numbness steadily crawling up his body has reached his pelvis.

“We didn’t test deleting anything,” McKay pauses, “but there wasn’t a storage buffer. This world might have different rules, but you’re still bleeding, just as real as out there.”

John sighs.

“There’s something,” McKay mutters, and moves his hand. It’s only when it’s gone that John realises how reassuring it had been. All these years and he’s still surprised by how much he missed being touched.

“Aha!”

There’s faint beeping, and a faint light in the corner of his eye. “McKay, what’s going on?”

“I’m just saving your life.”

“That’s good,” John pauses, “but how?”

The light in his periphery increases, green interlaced with orange, fanning out like veins.

“You know how everything in here is coded?”

John doesn’t know much about computers, but he can manage to put two and two together. “You’ve hacked the bug?”

“Exactly. I’m doing the impossible!” He sounds smug.

The light flashes and shifts, and John concentrates on breathing through the pain. It burns through his nerves where he still has feeling. “Whatever you’re doing, do it fast!”

“I’m working as fast as I can!” McKay splutters, but John swears the colours spin even faster.

He hates feeling so useless.

“Almost there,” McKay says.

He’s starting to lose feeling in his arms, too.

“Just one more…” McKay’s words blur together.

Faintly, John wishes McKay would put his hand back on his face while he can still feel something.

Then, in a single breath, his body returns to him. He stretches his fingers and his mind swims in relief. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his neck is still there, strongarming him down.

“I stopped the poison, I’ll need a bit more time to get it off completely.”

“Okay,” John whispers and lets his eyes fall closed. He feels tired, like the first morning his appetite returns after being sick. Unable to eat or sleep or wrap himself around the nearest source of warmth, he works to breathe evenly, soothing himself with the rhythms of his own body.

“There,” McKay murmurs.

The bug detaches from his neck and John opens his eyes again. McKay looks at the bug with a disgruntled expression before throwing it onto the fire. Apparently not dead, it lets out a final, blood curdling screech and puffs into a cloud of glowing orange and green dust. What remains of the bug fades in seconds, disappearing into the air as if it has never existed.

“Thanks,” John says. McKay gives him a stiff nod, chin and attitude stuck out, but the upward tilt of his mouth is one of the few more genuine expressions he’s seen on him.

Touching his neck, John feels a leak of wet, hot blood.

“What are you doing?” McKays asks as he unzips his tac vest and jacket.

He’s poised to rip his t-shirt. “I need to stop the blood flow. The… _thing_ zapped my bandages.”

Before he gets the chance, a loud rushing of wind disturbs the night, and the light of the forest surges anew.

“What now?” McKay’s voice increases to a shout to be heard. “Can’t we get a moment’s peace?!”

From up above them a pointy ship about the size of a Puddlejumper descends. It has its own light, specks and veins of red and orange bioluminescence on its hull.

John backs up, keeping McKay behind him. He’s tired, bleeding, unsteady on his feet and without any weapons. As far as he knows, the extent of the training most of the scientists received back at the SGC was a self defence course.

“When I tell you to run—”

“And leave you here?”

“McKay!”

“I won’t survive without you, we both know that.”

Two figures step out the vehicle, long black coats lit up with strips of red. Masks that look like bark cover their faces, melting into sleek helmets that conceal any other discerning features. Mostly they look tall and dangerous, covered from head to toe in black leather.

“Strays,” the first says in a robotic voice.

The second grunts.

They try to run. John throws himself at the closest one so McKay has a better chance—so at least one of them can make it back—but the two strangers overpower them easily.

“This one’s damaged,” the second one says as they secure John and Rodney into seats in the back of their cramped craft: wrists, hips and ankles strapped down tight. The inside looks much like the outside, but the wall feels like skin when his hands brush against it. _Gross._

“Not many survive the Iratus.” The first hands him a patch from inside his coat.

“Hey, no!” John protests, but the stranger slaps the glowing band aid over his wound, the leather of his glove stiff and cold.

“We need you ready for the Games.” The second sounds like he’s laughing. It’s hard to tell behind the mask.

“Games?”

But they walk off, a hatch closing behind them, separating John and Rodney from the cockpit.

“That can’t be good,” McKay whines. “That really can’t be good!”

“I know.”

Around them, engines hum and they feel the ship rise off the ground, the all too familiar push of gravity keeping him from moving until they change directions.

“We’re going to die!” McKay struggles against his bonds, wriggling about without any effect.

“We’re not dead yet,” John insists. “Can you hack it? Like with the… bug, the Iratus?”

McKay gives him a choice expression. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Major Brightbrain, my hands are _literally_ tied.”

“Okay, okay. Point taken.” John tries to restore his own cool. “Sorry.”

“Your neck!”

John squints at his own shoulder to no avail. “What’s happening?”

“It’s… the patch is gone and there’s only a scar left.”

“I feel less tired, too.”

They stare at each other.

“Do you think…” McKay starts. Stops. “Where can there be taking us? How is there an entire world inside Atlantis? It was as good as dead when we found it. There’s no way there’s enough power for all of this in standby mode.”

John swallows. McKay’s right: whatever is waiting for them at the end of this flight can’t be good.

Despite the danger, John doses off, the toll on his body catching up to him, magic glowing patch and all. He startles back to full alertness as the ship descends. McKay looks at him, eyes wide. 

“Hey, we’ll make it through,” John says, as much for himself as for McKay.

The pilots rejoin then, tie their wrists and drag them out of the ship. The large hall the ship has parked in barely resembles the cramped, fleshy inside of the small, dart shaped ship. In fact…

“McKay, any of this look familiar?”

“Looks like Ancient tech.” McKay strains his neck, gawping at the high ceilings. “And not.”

The interiors are all crushed into greyscale, the myriad colours of Atlantis that still manage to be soothing replaced by sleek and sterile planes. Strips of light, lit up orange and red like on their captors’ coats, intersect the panels and run in lines along the floor, disappearing underneath doors and past the edges of the walls of the hangar bay. Unlike their Atlantis, there are no Puddlejumpers here.

“Are these Ancients?” John whisper shouts. “They kinda suck!”

“What I don’t understand is where all this,” McKay tries to gesture with his bound hands, “is being stored.”

“Shut up.” John’s guard elbows him in the gut, quieting him and McKay. John is lucky he doesn’t trip over his own feet.

The corridor that should lead them to the main control room takes them into a dark chamber. Swathes of fleshy interior lining have been hung up, hiding the room’s actual size. They don’t quite cover the light, and it shines through eerily, the shifting and rustling of the hangings reminding him of how wet and messy human guts are. A shiver runs down his spine, leaving a chill in its wake. They’re pushed to their knees in front of what can’t be anything but a throne.

“Oh this is—” McKay pulls a face for the ages. “It feels like womb! It’s disgusting.”

John can’t help but agree.

“You _will_ be quiet in the presence of the queen,” the captor dragging McKay demands, the frustrated edge to his voice spurning John’s impulse to talk back.

What stops him is that their captors both remove their helmets. The visor clicks apart into strips that slide back, allowing their wearers to easily take off the remaining half. Long, white hair spills out above eyes with vertical slits for irises and long, sharp teeth.

“Oh no,” McKay whimpers.

John really wishes he still had his Beretta, or better yet, his shiny new P-90.

“Quiet!” One of them hisses. Their skin is green, and they both sport a pointy but distinctive facial tattoo. Approximately, they’re human enough, but there’s something about them that makes John’s gut go cold.

They hear the door behind them swish open, but their captors keep their faces turned toward the throne. It’s as if the very air in the room changes as footfalls approach them from behind. This whole set up is designed to intimidate: the large but oppressive feeling of the room, having them on their knees, not seeing the queen.

“These are the strays?” A tall figure steps into view. Unlike the others, she’s wearing an outfit that doesn’t cover every inch of skin, flashes of bio luminescence peeking out between dangerous looking spikes and padding. She also has a facial tattoo, but its tendrils are longer. She sits on the throne and sneers down at them. The cold feeling in John’s gut intensifies.

“Yes.”

“And no one has claimed their tribute?” The queen hisses. In the light, he gets a better look at her. Veins stand out beneath her skin, and in the palm of her raised hand he can see a deep, dark ridge that she doesn’t bother to hide with gloves.

“No.”

She assesses them, eyes narrowing as she stares. “Treat them in the usual manner. Train them for the Games. This surprise should make for some interesting entertainment.”

“What are the Games?” John asks.

She smiles with all her teeth. “You’ll see. Take them away.”

**Part 2**

**Training Protocol**

John and Rodney are herded out of the room and through some more corridors until they reach a large, many sided room with an array of doors. More helmeted, orange lit figures approach. In their midst are two who are not the like others: they don’t wear jackets, and strips on their tight outfits are arranged differently, glowing with a faint blue.

“He will need more training,” McKay’s guard says. “You go with the Champion.”

“No!” McKay protests, trying to break free of his captor’s tight grip.

“Where are you taking him?” John struggles too, but one of the blue strangers comes to help restrain him.

“You are going to be fighting as a pair, you will see him again after training,” the stranger taking McKay by the arm states.

“If you hurt him in any way, if you lay so much as a finger on him—you’ll regret it.” John knows he’s in a weak position to be making threats, but McKay is one of his men now. A team of two. They were just becoming friends.

The Champion does him the grace of nodding in understanding.

“Sheppard!” McKay looks at him over his shoulder as he’s led away.

He tries to be positive for McKay. “I’ll see you soon.”

His own trainer tugs at his tac vest, pushes him in front to follow the lit up strip in the floor, leading them in the opposite direction. He’s all alone again, split up from anyone who’s on his side, without weapons or hope of backup. He tries to tell himself he’s been in worse situations, but that lie holds no comfort. John vows to find the way out of this, for him and McKay. Training means they don’t want them dead. At least not yet.

The door they go through opens into an elevator. He gets led into another corridor and then a chamber

It’s in the same place the lab would be. His assigned trainer leans against one of the consoles and waits for the door to close and lock before removing his helmet. He has a very handsome human face—facial hair and a few tattoos, markedly different from the ones the guards and queen have, framed by long dreads.

“Step into the light.” He points. “It won’t hurt you.”

“Who are you?”

The guy gives him a flat stare, still pointing.

“You have a name, right?”

“Ronon. Now go, or I’ll make you.”

John considers resisting, but he knows Ronon could have him on the floor in seconds. So he obliges. “Nice to meet you, Ronon.” He places his feet into the white outline of a hexagon. Translucent straps lock his feet into place. “Great.”

“Stay still,” Ronon warns, examining his fingernails.

Slowly, John begins to loose all sense of gravity. He’s weightless, held to the ground by the straps and nothing else. He feels no resistance as he moves his arms, but it’s like everything is in slow motion. In front of him, his sleeves dissolve into nothing, and looking down, the rest of his clothes are vanishing, too.

“Hey,” John protests. “What—”

“Just let it happen, we all have to go through it.”

Starting at his feet, black fabric climbs up his body in neat, tessellated hexagons. The fabric doesn’t feel as tight or restrictive as it looks. In fact, it feels just as comfy as his BDUs, though without any of the handy pockets. The fabric on his chest hardens into a breastplate, and he’s given gloves that don’t cover all of his fingers. He can feel a higher collar than he’s used to, but that’s the only part of the get up that causes any discomfort. Pulling his chin as far back into his neck as he can, he sees familiar strips of light, humming slightly then lighting up in the same pale cyan as Ronon’s.

“This is your identity disc,” a cold and disembodied woman’s voice rings out. Ronon hands him a wide circle of material that’s harder than his breastplate, but just as alien. When he touches it, the outer and inner edge light up.

“Everything you do or learn will be imprinted on this disc,” a male voice continues.

As Ronon turns away from him again, reaching up to tie his dreads into a ponytail, John sees an identical looking disc attached to Ronon’s back. Do their captors have them, too? They could be hidden under their floor length coats, and he didn’t get a very good look at the queen’s back.

“If you lose your disc or fail to follow commands, you will be subject to immediate deresolution.” This time it is a child’s voice.

“Deresolution?” John repeats.

“They kill you,” Ronon explains, blunt in his manner but sharp in every other way: he looks bored or like he’s busy, but John hasn’t sensed the other man’s attention stray from him once.

With a jolt, gravity returns and his feet are released. The pillar of light dissolves, and John hurriedly moves to a different patch of ground. He takes a few steps, stretches. The fabric moves with him like a second skin. He touches the light strips. They feel hard like his breastplate, but not warm like a lightbulb would. Even the organic ship hadn’t felt warm; this world they’ve been transported to is cold in more ways than one.

“Wait.” Ronon takes John’s disc and move to stand behind him. John hears an audible click. Something pierces his awareness, not painful or obtrusive, but he feels as if it is thumbing through him like he’s a book, cover to cover. Then it’s over, and he has a new awareness of the disc. He doesn’t need to check the reflective surface of the wall to know it’s secured to his back. “Now you’re ready.”

“For what?” John bites down the urge to push Ronon, to try and fight him until he tells John everything he needs to know. “What are these Games? How can we escape?”

Ronon frowns, both confused and frustrated at once. “There’s no escape from the Wraith.”

“Is that who captured us?”

“How can you not know who they are?” Ronon snarls. “Don’t try anything with me.”

John holds his hands up. “Buddy, seriously, I don’t know.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Proceed,” the male voice says. A door on the far side of the room lights up.

John doesn’t wait for Ronon to push him this time.

“I’m kind of new in town and—”

“Later,” Ronon grunts. “The Wraith expect silence.”

Failure to follow commands results in deresolution, John remembers.

Ronon walks him through the halls and uses his disc to get them access to a tram like shuttle. They’re escorted by two Wraith in the pod shaped carriage. It takes them past the main tower and the inner ring of labs, after which the city resembles Atlantis less and less. Instead of transporters there are sleek elevators and windows are sparse. Turning his head, he watches the main tower recede. The labs melt into low buildings, no further towers, only clean, low lines interconnected by orange and red.

In the other direction, there are great plains of tessellated hexagons, dispersed by rare white strips like the one their pod is travelling along. In the distance he can see outcroppings of rocks, and more buildings, their specks of blue and white suggesting small villages. Is that where they keep prisoners like him and Ronon?

They don’t travel towards the villages. About halfway between them and the Wraith city, their pod banks and curves. In the distance, at his 11 o’clock, he spots a large structure that looks like a hybrid between an arena and the Colosseum in Rome as it was when it first stood, unshaken by the forces of Earth and time. Beyond, he makes out a shallow glimmer that moves. This world also has an ocean.

Suddenly the Games make much more sense. However well years of training help him suppress the urge, he still bile crawl up his throat. _Entertainment,_ the queen had called it.

A small speck of white distinguishes itself from the strip they’re travelling along. They arrive.

They leave their guards in the pod, stepping straight into the spiky, windowless building. He follows Ronon down cramped corridors until the space opens out into a large room. Walls of translucence divide it into separate rooms like indoor tennis courts. Ronon directs him into one. Accessing a control panel by the door, he adjusts the walls and door until they’re as see through as milk.

“The others will be curious,” Ronon explains.

Then he’s crushing John into the wall, pinning him with his body, a forearm pushing against his larynx. “ _I_ _’m_ curious. How can you not know about the Wraith?”

John kicks feebly from where he’s pinned, going for his shins, but Ronon stands his ground. With his free hand Ronon pulls his disc free from its holster. The outer edge ignites, humming softly. When Ronon touches it to John’s cheek he feels the all too familiar slice of fresh pain.

“I’m from another Galaxy. We came through the Gate in Atlantis and—”

“Atlantis is a myth.” Ronon looks ready to snap.

“I’m not lying! I can…” prove it? How can he prove it?

In the blink of an eye, Ronon returns his disc to its holster. Then John’s thrown onto the floor like a rag doll. Throwing his arms up to protect his head is a reflex. Pain spreads from the points of impact across his body. He’ll have some nasty bruises, that’s for sure.

He feels something pull at his back, and hears the click of Ronon taking his disc. He rolls and watches as Ronon holds it flat on the palm of one hand while his other manipulates images that float above the disc. Thousands of tiny lights arrange themselves into an image of the gate where they’d first entered this digital world, then fly about in space, rearranging themselves into a hologram of McKay’s face. It’s freaky, how this thing has tapped into his brain and can recall his memories with more clarity than he himself can.

Ronon twists his wrist, and that’s them in the lab, Zelenka hurling his boot at them as duck out of the way, laughing. Next he sees the conference table, determination writ over Weir’s face and condemnation over Sumner’s. Then it’s the flight over the ocean from the perspective of a Puddlejumper cockpit. John had taken the jumper on a joyride around the city’s perimeter and slalomed through her towers, the overeager young Lieutenant with him whooping after he’d completed a completely unnecessary vertical loop.

Ronon closes his hand into a fist and projection shuts off. “Atlantis is a myth on my planet. The city of the Ancestors that once led the war against the Wraith.”

“Atlantis was a myth on my planet too.”

Ronon shifts from anger to melancholy. “How did you get there? The Gates…”

“We came from a different galaxy. Can’t leave now, but we’re trying to fix that… which is how we ended up in here.”

“Can you fix it?”

“That’s more a McKay question.” John sits up, and Ronon hands him his disc back. “You’ve been at war with the Wraith for 10,000 years?”

“The whole galaxy has. No one knows when there’ll be a culling. Only the Wraith can use the Gates.”

“A culling?”

“The Ancestors left a long time ago,” Ronon continues, rage sharpened into words. “Now there’s only the Wraith. In here, the only way to live is to survive the Games.”

“If there’s a way out, we’re going to find it.” John hesitates. “You could come with us.”

A klaxon rings out. “Resume training, or you will be punished for non-compliance.”

Ronon throws his disc at the ground. It bounces off the surface like it’s made of rubber and straight back up into his waiting fingers. “There’s no escape. Once you’re in the Grid, it’s forever. Not even the Wraith leave.”

“Can’t we overthrow them?”

“We’ve tried many times before.” Ronon gives him dark look.

John imagines a life of fighting stretching out in front of him. No hope of escape, no freedom or purpose except to make it through just that bit longer. Is survival the only thing that keeps Ronon going?

Ronon drops his disc and catches it again. “They’ll check on us if we don’t train properly.”

John stands. He takes on a defensive stance, saving his questions for later. “We fight with these?” He waves his disc in front of him. Putting your life in your hands, he supposes. If it holds his memories, how much could interfering with the disc interfere with him?

“Training protocols on,” Ronon instructs, and their discs both light up green. Then Ronon throws his disc at him, straight and easy. John scoots out the way, and, belatedly remembering the rebound, ducks as it whizzes over his head. Ronon catches it, turning into a spin that has his dreads fanning out around his head.

“My turn.” John thinks of the hours spent playing volleyball in college, of all the angles and rebounds you learn to consider, calculating with your body rather than your mind. Like learning to block or hit reflexively when sparring, he needs to attune his body to the feeling of the motion He throws the disc against the wall, and has to sprint the few steps to catch it on the rebound.

“Too much elbow,” Ronon comments.

John tries again, thinking of throwing a frisbee and flicking his wrist. Volleyball means bending from the knees and responding to the impact of the ball, through the pain and into air. In football it’s all in the arm, how far and fast, the wrist is only for spin. But here he has to combine speed, angles and—

Ronon’s disc bounces off the space his foot just was.

It takes John twenty tries to land a hit close to Ronon. He learns how to activate his helmet and turn the knees and elbows of his suit into harder, protective guards. Then Ronon takes him through some exercises, basic tactics and common pitfalls most competitors hope to catch rookies out with.

“How many are there?” John asks.

“You and McKay make 42 of us, hence the Games.”

“42,” John has to suppress a half laugh half sigh. He turns before remembering McKay’s not with him to appreciate the coincidence. John’s willing to bet that McKay knows his geeky stuff.

“What?” Ronon frowns.

“Nothing.” John would ask what happens to the losers, but he had a pretty good idea. “Why are you helping me?”

Ronon shrugs. “There’ll be teams.”

John gets the feeling that might not be all, but doesn’t want to push. So he gets up instead and activates his disc. They spar some more until John’s wrung out and clutching at his knees. He’s unsure if he’s grateful or just weirded out by how the suits absorbs his sweat. This place is so clean, as if it’s trying to sterilise away anything that makes them human.

“Rest period.” The disembodied voice is back, female this time.

“I’ll get us lunch. Stay here.” Ronon pats him on the shoulder companionably, almost knocking him onto the ground again.

John spares a moment’s worry for McKay. This is reminding him of boot camp, and if McKay’s trainer is even half as thorough as Ronon is, well…

Following Ronon, he walks straight into the door when moments before, Ronon had walked out without a problem. “You are not cleared.” Milky white fades back into place. The control panel doesn’t react to him at all. Stuck, John gets himself all cosy sitting in a corner. He wonders if this is what his cell will look like after the day’s training finishes.

Ronon returns with two bottles of glowing, blue liquid. After prompting from Ronon, he drinks.

It tastes weird and explodes on his tongue like popping candy. It’s not sweet though, just goopy and tasteless. After his first few sips, he feels the tension in his back ease and his exhaustion dissipate. Halfway through, his energy is fully restored. In fact, he feels a little high, like he’s on morphine, but less floaty and more like the world around him is crystallising. The clarity should be overwhelming, but instead he feels energised.

He wants more, but his bottle is empty. Cautiously, John re-examines how he’s feeling. “What is this stuff?”

Ronon shrugs. “They posted the team assignments for the first round. You’re with McKay for doubles.”

Just like they’d said. “And after that?”

“We’re on the same team. Even rounds are always the challenge of the Grid.”

Whatever that means. “How is it decided who loses?”

“More rounds.”

“What do the winners get?”

Ronon looks uncomfortable. “Better place to live, extra fights. Get to train the likes of you.”

So he and McKay’s trainer—Champion?—are a pretty big deal around here. John wonders if Ronon came here alone or with someone. “So it’s two on two for what, disc fighting?”

“Disc wars,” Ronon corrects. “Then it’s lightcycles. Teams of four when the numbers fit.”

“Lightcycles?”

“You’ll see. Tomorrow.”

Ronon stands and discards their bottles into a hatch by the door. John unclips his disc and stretches. “Do you know the other trainer?”

“Yeah. Are you worried about your friend?”

“Well… he’s not such a good fighter. It’s up to me to protect him.”

The first genuine smile John had seen on Ronon breaks out across his face. “You’re okay, Sheppard.”

“Same team?” John stretches his arm out. It’s always good to have allies. And he likes Ronon. When they fight, it’s like they’re old friends already. Training and intuition twine together, and though John’s new to this, they fall into a rhythm easily. John means what he offered. They’re going to escape, and Ronon is welcome to join them.

“Same team,” Ronon agrees, and grips John’s forearm.

Ronon picks up another bottle of the blue goop for John to drink on their way to the closest village. He sips at it as they ride the pod, exhausted from the day’s training, but keeping an eye on the terrain that passes them by. He sees nothing but the same black hexagons, smooth and flat, easy ground to cross but equally easy to be spotted if they ever made a run for it. There’s not much difference between day and night: the sky stays the same shade of slate.

John stops when he’s halfway through the bottle, before its rejuvenating effect leaves him listless and energised. He doesn’t know what state McKay will be in when he sees him. There’s also the matter of sleep. He’s no medical doctor, but he doubts this stuff can or should replace it.

“You don’t want it?” Ronon frowns.

“Saving it for later.”

Guards escort them once the pod stops. It’s a short walk that leads them into the outcropping of rocks, their edges comprised of disconcertingly straight lines and right angles, nothing rounded or random, very different to the stretchy and uneven organic look of the Wraith tech. They walk to a clearing surrounded by houses made of the same sleek material that the outside of the city and the training complex are made of. Blue light strips along the edges illuminate the square between the buildings where a figure is waiting for them.

“Sheppard!” McKay moves towards them.

Ronon’s hand on John’s arm stops him from fighting his guard and running to meet him.

“Leave him to me,” Ronon grunts, sounding colder when he speaks to the Wraith than he had the whole afternoon.

“Remember, if you break the rules, we will find you. We are your death.”

Ronon rolls his eyes as McKay closes the last of the distance.

“McKay, are you alright?” John rips himself free of Ronon’s grip and clutches McKay’s shoulders, searching his face for injuries or signs of discomfort.

“Yes. I mean, no, not generally. We’re still screwed. But… I’m uninjured.”

John bites down on the urge to pull McKay into his arms more fully and drops them to his sides instead. “Good… that’s good.”

“Let’s get inside,” Ronon grunts.

John introduces them to each other and follows to one of the houses.

“Where’s your trainer?” John asks once they’re sat around a glowing crystal in the middle of the room. Alcoves along the wall with raised platforms act as beds, three filled with pillows and blankets that are meant for them. McKay’s taken one of the blankets and wrapped it around himself. The suits are pretty tight, even if they don’t feel like it. Ronon sprawls in front the faint heat the crystal emits while Rodney hunches into himself. John’s been enlisted so long he’s forgotten how to care if people see his body. It’s only certain contexts he has to avoid, certain things he doesn’t want to risk.

“She stays in a different village. She has other duties tonight, but tomorrow we’re training together.”

Ronon grins. “I’ve fought her before, she’s a great fighter.”

“You’ve never been on the same team, though. Teyla said they often make you and her ride alone.”

“Yeah.” Ronon says.

“Hey, you still hungry?” John offers the unfinished bottle he has clipped to his belt. If he thinks hard enough about his suit, he can make what he needs appear—except weapons, and within reason. He can’t make a F-302 appear, but if he needs a belt or thigh holster, however useless without a gun, the suit shimmers and adapts. However, there’s only so much of the hard material available, so he has to choose which areas to shield.

“No. I don’t want too much of that stuff.”

“I’ll take it.” Ronon swipes it before John can suggest saving it for the morning.

“Hey! That’s Sheppard’s.”

Ronon stares McKay down, wary yet challenging.

“It’s fine.” John imagines a zip and tugs it down, finally freeing his neck. It’s been bothering him all day, more than the more accustomed tight feeling of button ups.

McKay lets out a slight gasp. “You’ve scarred.”

John feels the pebbled quality of his skin. It’s three raised bumps, the skin between twisted but no longer sore. “Huh.”

“The juice speeds it up,” Ronon says. “How’d you get it?”

“Iratus bug.”

“You lived?” Ronon looks surprised.

“Thanks to McKay I did.”

Ronon looks McKay over with a new appreciation and drains the bottle in one long chug. “Good night.”

Catching John’s eye as he gets up, Ronon nods at him, his expression respectful, almost fond. It’s the opposite of the hard stare he gets from men like Sumner who think they know him before they’ve ever met him. His team were different, they’d faced death together and lived, but there were still parts of him he had to keep hidden. But Ronon’s different. Standoffish, but for some reason taking a chance on him. On them.

When Ronon’s settled in his alcove, McKay leans in close to John. “Can we trust him?”

“Yeah, he hates the Wraith. He wants out. He’ll help us.”

“Oh.” McKay’s face does something funny. “That’s good.”

“Are you really okay?” John asks. He understands putting up a front for people.

“Creepy aliens are going to make us fight in literal gladiator battles. I don’t want to die, especially not with everyone laughing at me,” McKay says miserably

John isn’t keen on dying either. “How’d your training go?”

“Teyla’s nice.” McKay looks at the swirling pattern in the crystal. “But I wasn’t so good at the disc fighting.”

John tries to be encouraging. “It’s only your first day, I’m sure you’ll get better the more you practice.”

“I bet you were a natural.”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“You don’t know what it’s like to not be good at this stuff with all your,” McKay gestures, “that.”

“My _what_?” Military training?

McKay swats at him. “I’m going to ignore that you’re fishing for compliments.”

“I wasn’t… look, McKay. Rodney.”

Rodney looks up. John makes the effort to look him in eye.

“You’re right, I am good at this stuff. But it doesn’t matter if we can’t get out of here. And out of the two of us, you’re the one who’s going to make that happen.” For someone with such a big ego, Rodney looks so very fragile right now. “You saved me, remember? You _can_ do this.”

Rodney swallows. Nods.

“So, let’s go over what we know.”

They reassess. They’re stuck in a digital world—Grid is the name Rodney offers—with the only way out being the Gate, Rodney confirming what John’s been suspecting. Zelenka and the rest of the expedition will definitely be looking for them, but unless they risk sending more people in, there’s little chance of rescue.

“They system is just too complex. It’s not like they can just extract us. We’re constantly interacting with things. We need to physically walk through the gate so that our data can be tagged properly and it knows where to send us.”

“Like the Dewey decimal system.”

“Close enough.”

“They won’t risk sending anyone in after us, even if they figure out we’re alive,” John says. He runs a hand through his hair, surprised it’s not getting greasy. Another thing that doesn’t happen in here. He wonders if they’re technically ageing.

“Did Ronon tell you about the tributes?”

“That’s what the queen said.”

Rodney hesitates. “The humans in Pegasus, they… sacrifice some of their number in hope of avoiding a culling. Some have contracts. Teyla’s people… she’s their leader, and she couldn’t stand the idea of sacrificing anyone in her place.”

“She left her people all alone?”

“They have a council or assembly or something. But being their leader, she hoped it would appease them.”

“Did it work?”

“There haven’t been any Athosian tributes since she entered the Grid. The Wraith in here, they control the Gates. It’s how the Wraith outside can travel and so they do what the Wraith here tell them. There are supposed to be hundreds if not thousands of worlds linked to the ‘Gate and sure, some of them wouldn’t have survived 10,000 years anyway, but Teyla says she’s met people from at least a hundred different worlds.”

“How long has she been here?”

“I don’t know.”

“So even though this world was created by the Ancients to stop the Wraith…”

“They basically handed over the entire galaxy to them.”

“That ship headed towards the city, it’s got to be Wraith, right?” John grunts in frustration. “And we have no way of warning them.”

“No.”

“They’ll probably attack the city. Let’s hope they got the chair working.”

“Zelenka can manage that, at least.”

“Did you learn anything else?

“There is one more thing.” Rodney pulls his disc out from behind his back. Flicking his wrist, dust appears.

“How to see your memories?”

Rodney smiles at him, eyes wide and hopeful like how he’d looked at the machinery back on Atlantis. “More than that.” His fingers twisting, he brings up a double helix, spinning slowly on itself. “I can’t hack it or anything, but it’s incredible. Look at the intricacy of the design, how real this all feels.”

“Could you though?”

“Hack myself?”

“Or a ship or something. You hacked the bug.”

“So I did. I don’t know if I can do it again, a ship compared to a bug… it’s more complex.”

“Okay.” It would help though, if they could steal a ship. “But if anyone can, it’s you, right? Dr Genius?”

McKay rolls his eyes and yawns.

“C’mon, we’re both tired,” John decides. They know a lot more than they did that morning? Yesterday evening? And they won’t get any further if they don’t take care of themselves.

They relocate to the beds. The blanket is soft as fleece, but heavier, comforting. John draws his blanket all the way up to his chin. Hearing Rodney’s breathing reminds him of barrack bunks and being married, but there’s none of the worn-out claustrophobia of not having his own space. It’s far nicer than the last cell he’d been held prisoner in. Together he and Rodney have the skills to make it out, John to get them through the games and Rodney to exit the world.

Rodney huffs and turns for a while before his breathing eases into a more sedate pace. “Good night McKay.”

“Night Sheppard.”

John matches his breaths to Rodney’s and drifts into a restless sleep.

During the rest period, John makes a point of bringing Teyla her bottle of blue liquid.

“Thank you,” she says, giving him an inquisitive look when he sits next to her.

“McKay says you’re a good teacher,” John offers. Conversation isn’t exactly his forte.

“He is… an attentive student,” Teyla chooses her words carefully. She carries strength and determination with her, but also a sense of peace. Maybe that’s why Rodney likes her. She’s also very pretty.

“He told me you came here to protect your people.”

“The Wraith demanded a tribute. I was their leader. There were not many adults who met their requirements left after the last culling and I could not ask anyone else to go.”

“You must miss them.” He still misses his old team. They’re dead now, all of them gone except when they creep into his nightmares.

“Terribly. But I know they are unharmed because of my sacrifice. As long as I live they need not offer another tribute. There were always legends of what lay beyond the frozen Gates. Another world, but I had never dreamed it would be like this.”

“McKay says it wasn’t supposed to be. We have a plan to get out. Come with us.”

“Rodney has said the same. He believes may be able to unfreeze the Gates.” Teyla put her bottle down, giving him her full attention. “Why should I trust you?”

John mulls it over. Ronon had needed evidence of the city and his story, but Teyla already believes him and Rodney. She’s not doubting that escape is possible. It’s him that she needs to be sure of.

Reaching behind his back, John unclicks his disc. He gives it to her. “Whatever you need.”

If she needs his memories, he’ll share. If she needs to know he’s capable of sacrifice too, this is the gesture. He’s putting his life in her hands.

Teyla hands his disc back with a smirk. “Alright, John Sheppard.”

“Same team?”

“Same team.”

They train, sometimes together, but mostly apart. John’s used to it now, taking the stick in his hands and splitting it in half as he runs and jumps, landing softly in his seat as the wheels materialise and find purchase on the gleaming ground. He learns how the bike moves; how the ribbon of light that spills from its hind wheel can be turned on and off with the small button by his left thumb. In the arena, the ribbon solidifies, meaning that if a bike runs against it, it crashes and disperses. Ronon introduces him to the lower level. Ramps let him slip down or up, some curved, some steep. To make things more interesting, John supposes. Arrows on the ground can give bikes a boost of speed, squiggles force it to slow for a few moments. To make sure the Wraith don’t get bored too quickly. The ribbon can trash the bike of a teammate, or even his own bike if he leaves it on long enough. He has to plan ahead, set traps, and evade the other players.

Turns out that Rodney is better rider than him, so when the time comes to practice doubles John gets in the seat behind him. There’s no breeze of setting summer sun, but Rodney’s body is solid as he hugs him from behind. The suits keep further apart than layers of clothes would, but John just holds on tighter, leaning with Rodney when needed and practising holding on to him with one arm so he can use the other one to fight if needed.

The other half of the time they train with the discs. He gets better, adapting some moves from the fighting styles he already knows, and listening closely when Ronon explains how to improve his technique. They don’t change their suits and their bodies need nothing but the blue liquid to sustain them.

“It wears on you,” Ronon says, not letting John give him back a half finished bottle. “But if you want to survive, drink.”

It’s been hard enough the past four days without so many of the uncomfortable things that make the human experience. John had never thought he’d miss getting a headache or waking up drenched in sweat. The things that can be pleasurable, like a hot shower, the first cup of coffee in the morning, or the feeling the sunlight against his skin, they’re easy to miss. But now that the annoying and painful things are gone he feels less real. He’s gone without comfort before, but discomfort had always been there to take its place. So he doesn’t want the liquid; he wants to feel exhausted, wrung out and aching for sleep. He wants relief.

But Ronon’s right. They need their best shot.

The Games are a self contained system, however the Arena has to realign and refurbish itself between rounds. There’s commotion, Ronon assures, while the players get herded from one place to next, preparing for the next round. Rodney has worked out that with the large structural changes, a lot of the world’s additional processing power usually reserved for surveillance will be used. He’d only realised when Teyla told him the rest of the world goes dark during the tournaments. Their power supply is not endless, and neither can their power over this world be, either.

Rodney practises his hacking, first changing the crystal in their dwelling slash cell to a different shape, then colour, then back. Next he messes with the alcoves and height of the ceiling. When he manages to rearrange the strips of light, Ronon looks genuinely hopeful. After that, all four of them decide to make a run for the Gate during the tournament. Not after the first round, they’ll be too far apart. But in the second round they’re guaranteed to be together, and they’ll have bikes.

Rodney has a theory—in fact, he has many theories, about almost everything they see in the world—but he has one for how he can hack the Gate and get them all safely back to Atlantis. The Wraith must have some kind of system in place that allows for travel, letting Teyla and Ronon and the other tributes in and allowing the Wraith outside to use the Gates. It’s easier to copy it than write a new one, Rodney had explained, and then all he has to do is find the code from they were first dematerialised and reverse it. The technology they used to re-materialise the objects is the same, so that should provide them a way out. If Rodney can locate the DHD from this side and do all that, then getting home should be as easy as dialling a Gate address.

“This is kind of how I imagine Ascension, if you were still corporeal, and without the Wraith,” McKay says. They’ve turned in for the night, but John’s mind is going too fast for him to sleep.

“What’s Ascension?”

“Oh, that’s right. This stuff is still new to you.”

“Well, what is it?” John asks, turning to lay on his back.

“Before they died, a lot of the Ancients managed to ascend. They became energy, leaving their physical form behind and potentially living forever.”

“How is that like this?” Everything in this world is relentlessly physical, but not quite physical enough. Regular sensations are dulled, keeping him off-balance. There’s no food or true rest.

“I guess it’s not really. The power to control the world though… that is. There’s records of Ancients developing superpowers before finally ascending. I’ve never much liked the idea. Elizabeth’s keen on it, but I don’t see the appeal.”

“Even with the superpowers?”

“Even then. There’s too much to give up.” Rodney’s silent for a few minutes, then there’s a rustling of blankets and he’s standing beside John’s alcove. Pushing his legs to the side, Rodney perches. “Time to check on your scar.”

John sighs. “You’re not a medical doctor, remember?”

“Yes, but we agreed to monitor it, weird Wraith healing technology and all.”

John sits up, pulls the zipper in his suit down farther, and peels the collar back as far as it will go. If he tries to remove too much of the suit, it tessellates back into place, like when he’d first gone through his initiation with Ronon.

Peering, Rodney leans closer. He inspects the scar with his hand, running the pad of his thumb over John’s skin. The touch feels so alien yet achingly familiar. The suits keep everything muted, locking his very human body away. John leans into the touch, wants it to last.

Rodney doesn’t move. “Feels fine.” His eyes are looking at John’s face and he’s smiling softly. 

On impulse, John kisses him. He hasn’t thought about what it would be like, so he doesn’t have any expectations. He just knows that he likes Rodney and that this feels like the right and natural thing to do. He likes how his eyes light up as he runs towards the mysteries of the universe just as fast as John runs away from himself. He likes the slope of his shoulders; he likes how his grip is sure and his body speaks as loudly as his voice.

The kiss is brief and aborted since Rodney moves away, taking his hand with him.

“I’m sorry. I thought—” John had thought he’d seen Rodney looking back.

“Major, I appreciate that we might die in the Games, and I’m sure it would be interesting to find out the extend of the programming in, um, all areas, but…” Rodney scrubs a hand over his face.

“It’s alright, McKay. You don’t have to explain. I shouldn’t have.” John leans back, feeling stupid. Maybe this world really is screwing with his brain more than he’d realised. He thought Rodney might like him back because of way he’d looked at him that first day, or that smile in the labs; because of the careful way he touches him, like John’s precious to him. He thought he felt something mutual.

But that’s just how Rodney is. Both oblivious and considerate, full of the same paradoxes that twine around each other in every person. John had just hoped it had meant something more when Rodney had cared for him.

“Not that you’re not—” Rodney does something vague with his hands, “and I’m—I am attracted to guys. I’m just not…”

 _Not into me,_ John thinks. Message received. “I hope we can still be friends,” John tries before Rodney can say anything else. It sounds cliched and pathetic, but he means it.

“Friends,” Rodney agrees, and disappears back to his own bed.

After that, sleep finds John easily and he’s grateful.

**Part 3**

**The Games**

It’s a relief the next morning when Rodney greets him with a smile, a bit strained around the edges, but he makes no mention of what had happened the night before. Ronon is impassive, about as revealing as granite, so John can’t tell if he heard. The two Wraith who came in to wake them are entirely unreadable, hidden behind their masks, and ready to escort them to the Arena.

Today’s the day. The Games begin.

The ride in the pod feels muted. A total of six guards escort them, two each. John holds Rodney’s gaze watches the fear in them harden, determination lining his face as he prepares himself. Then John closes his own eyes, psyching himself up until the pod slows.

During the final approach towards the Arena, the air ripples, disturbances distorting the walls of the pod. “What’s that?” Rodney hisses, eyes wide.

“They’re setting up,” Ronon answers.

A growl from one of the Wraith quiets them.

As their pod, one in a chain of many, approaches the stadium, the lights behind them dim. They don’t entirely extinguish, but in contrast to the bright yellow, orange and red lights of the stadium its hard to make out anything except the light from their pods.

They slip underground as they draw near. The pods in front of them begin to slip into side tunnels like beads falling from a snapped necklace. Then they’re up, swallowed into a new tunnel with only a whoosh to accompany them. When they stop two guards take Ronon in the opposite direction. Looking over his shoulder Ronon nods at them. Then John and Rodney are led into a small room and pushed until they’re standing on glowing panels on the floor like the one where John first got his suit.

“Not this again,” Rodney whines.

Clamps of light hold them there, waiting.

“I bet they won’t make it past the first round,” one of their guards says, malice bleeding into the robotic quality of his voice that all helmets give their wearers.

“They’ll make it one round, I’ve seen the taller one fight,” the one next to him replies.

The third shuffles closer. “They’ll lose in the races. They won’t survive the challenge of the Grid.”

Beneath John and Rodney, the floor jolts to life. They’re on a platform that’s slowly rising into another tunnel. The Wraiths’ petty argument fades away as they fade from view. John can’t help but feel like a rat stuck in a maze.

“Oh, oh no. This is it,” Rodney says.

“Hey, McKay. We got this.”

“We’ll get out,” Rodney nods, and reaches for his disc. He brandishes like a sword.

Seeing the expression on John’s face, Rodney lowers it again. “Too much?”

The click and whirr of his own disc as he takes it is uncomfortably familiar. “We don’t need fancy or heroic. We just need to make sure we survive.”

The tunnel ends abruptly, a sudden flash of light making John squint and lose his balance. Good thing the clamps are still in place. They’ve emerged into a floating, transparent box. The tunnel they were in retracts like a walkway onto an aeroplane. The box is about as big as the room he’s trained in with Ronon, but it’s the view through its walls that really throws him off. Around and below them are more of the boxes, their fellow contestants already waiting. All the fights set up to start at the same time. Teyla had described it to them, but floating in mid-air, surrounded by at least a thousand jeering and roused Wraith in fleshy stadium seats is a completely different experience. No smells or summer heat like a baseball game, just the imposing night above a sea of sharpened teeth.

“Shit,” John says.

“This is not real,” Rodney sniffs, closing his eyes.

Across the box, two figures rise into view, helmets already on. They look ready. John doesn’t feel ready.

“Stay with me,” John says, and takes a moment to think his suit into place, forming a hard shell of a helmet and visor, and using the rest for a breastplate to match his knee and elbow guards. In his periphery, Rodney does the same, but his suit moves much faster. Perks of understanding the code, he supposes.

One of the figures makes a gesture at them. It’s probably something rude. Ronon had warned him that there was little loyalty here, the Games breed competition and hatred. Without Ronon and Teyla they’d be walking into the slaughterhouse all alone.

“My loyal Hive,” a voice booms. The queen is standing with a spotlight on her, arms raised as she sits on a throne grown into the stands. “These Games are an unexpected surprise, but a welcome one. Enjoy the spectacle. Tonight we shall feast!”

The crowd erupts into jeers and the noise of their heavy boots stomping. In front of John and Rodney, holographic numbers slowly count down. When they read zero, the clamps around their feet release and the fight begins.

Their opponents don’t engage in any jeering or threats, getting right down to it by sending their discs careening towards them. It’s so synced up it has to be a practised motion. John tugs Rodney back by the elbows, and the discs cross in the air where they’d been standing split seconds before. Standing back to back, their opponents catch them again, unphased.

“Shit,” John repeats.

“Seconded,” Rodney says, trembling. In here, there are no safety protocols. Their opponents change formation, and as more noise filters in, John realises it has to be for the crowd’s benefit. You have to fight well to survive, but artistry might make you popular. Might make you feel powerful.

Fuck the Wraith, and fuck their games. They barely avoid the next attack. John’s glad they came up with a strategy beforehand. Their opponents are sticking with basic attacks, taking their time. They’re playing with them. Whatever they have planned won’t be fun for John or Rodney.

The next attack slices between them, ricocheting off the ceiling and floor before returning.

“They’re trying to split us!” Rodney huffs, his voice clearer than over his standard issue radio. John didn’t know Rodney could open a communication channel between their suits. From the surprised look on Rodney’s face, maybe he hadn’t either. He’s also right.

“Okay,” John mutters. He makes the first signal, clenching his hand into a fist in front of him. Then he runs forward and throws himself onto his knees, aiming his disc at their opponents’ legs. One of them ambles back like they’d expected. That one, Rodney manages to hit.

But the other one jumps into the air at the last second, pulling their knees to their chest like a frog. A lot of blood starts to drip onto the otherwise pristine floor as the one who was hit crumples to their knees.

John scrambles back as the one who’s still standing throws his disc at him. He feels pain in his arm as he rolls out the way. Not good.

“Stay away from him!” McKay yells. John hears the clash of disc on disc.

Standing, he’s just in time to pivot and bring his heel up so he can dislodge the opponent from where they’ve got Rodney pinned with a kick. The suit absorbs more of the impact than his BDUs ever have, and he’s slashing at their opponent’s vulnerable stomach within seconds.

“Stay down,” John says, putting all the rank and menace he can into the two words. If they both stay down for ten seconds, the box will terminate the match and deploy medical supplies for the wounded. They shuffle back a few steps, just in case.

Their attacker doesn’t stay down. Of course not. Through the rips in their suit, John sees hard casing, probably thought into place after Rodney got the other one. Clever.

“You will know Amtem’s wrath, there are none that may stand in her way,” their opponent says.

“Very dramatic,” Rodney complains, shifting into a defensive stance Teyla had taught him.

This time Amtem holds nothing back. Foregoing fancy techniques and pauses for the crowd, she swings her disc at them. They’re so busy avoiding it, that they belatedly realise that one, she’s running towards the opposite wall, and two, that the arrow in the middle of the floor is glowing.

“Fuck.”

John and Rodney both rush towards the wall closest to them, but they aren’t fast enough. Around them, the gravity changes, holding them in mid-air, weightless, for one nauseas second, and then they slam into what used to be the ceiling, but is now the floor.

“Ouch.” Rodney sounds dejected, but alive and uninjured.

Before John can get to his feet, a disc slams into his helmet, cracking it in two. It falls to the floor as Amtem raises her disc. John blocks her with his forearm, crying out as she cuts down to the bone, dropping his disc. He still feels pain, but knows it shouldn’t be so muted. A more experienced fighter would have thought to shift the hard casing. At least it gives him time to roll out of the way of another blow.

He hears the whizz of another disc. Rodney’s throw misses. Despite the fact that it is Rodney who took out the other opponent—who has at least been removed from the arena and is suspended in a bubble outside the box, no doubt being healed in anticipation of the next round—Amtem continues to lunge after John.

He picks his disc he’d dropped back up with his uninjured arm. He manages to keep blocking her, glad Ronon had made him train with both his sides, but he’s losing ground. He hopes Rodney is watching. Through the agony spreading down his entire right arm, manages to move his fingers in a circular motion: their third signal, the one for a distraction.

John feels the wall against his back just as Rodney delivers. Yelling, Rodney tackles Amtem around the waist. That both distracts her and makes sure Rodney is ducked low enough to avoid the disc she swings in retaliation. John slides down the wall in relief and curls his legs around Amtem’s. They roll as Rodney’s disc clatters to the ground.

She tries to pry him off her, but John rolls them instead, giving Rodney the perfect opening to deliver a blow to her head and knock her unconscious.

Rodney helps him to his feet as the ten seconds count down.

“Are you okay?” John asks. Rodney’s a civilian, he hasn’t seen this kind of combat before. “You got the first one pretty good.” He checks Rodney’s face, calming as he sees his expression free from the strain of pain or wide-eyed fear.

“Am I okay? You’re bleeding!”

At the ten second mark, a holographic firework goes off in the centre of the box. A patch flutters down from the ceiling like confetti. Rodney catches it and presses it against John’s forearm, holding it steady with one hand as he peels back the suit to apply it with the other. It feels better than any first aid he’s ever given himself. He’s grateful for the cool embrace of numbness from the painkillers it releases.

“Not anymore.” John looks at him meaningfully as the box forms a separate bubble for Amtem. Around them the crowd thunders and shouts at another match.

“I’m not okay, but I’m glad we’re alive.”

Rodney keeps hold of his arm as they wait for the others matches to finish, and the platform to reactivate to take them back into the belly of the Arena.

As the platform takes them back down, pillars of light and weighlessness and all, it tesselates some new material onto John’s suit to make up for his lost helmet.

John looks at Rodney. “You remember the plan?”

“Of course!” Rodney sounds indignant, but his mouth is slanted downward with worry.

At the bottom, the same four guards wait to escort them through the tunnels, handing them some blue liquid to drink. As they walk, the air around them ripples, the Arena up above transforming. The patch has drained John’s energy and adrenaline from the fight, but Rodney’s looking shaky. The liquid helps.

Ronon and Teyla wait for them in a similar room to the one they’d been in before, just larger. They greet each other with solemn nods. They’d talked over their plan in advance. They have to wait until the round begins for the bikes to activate, but then Rodney can hack them to go beyond the confines of the Arena and they can escape. With any luck, he can hack their opponents’ bikes into failing at the same time. The only overhead craft that are still functional are small ships like the one that had first captured them. If they can make it to the forest, riding in stealth mode with their lights off (another original Dr Rodney McKay hack), then there is a good chance they can make it to the Gate.

Any ship approaching the Gate would have to land to try and stop them because shooting so close to their source of power would be too risky. The clue had been in the glowing plants: activation causes a surge of energy. The Wraith need that extra boost more than human tributes, John suspects.

“Move it,” one of their guards barks, prodding John with a stick. Teyla and Ronon had called them stunners. Upped security during the Games. John doesn’t want to find out how they work.

Pillars of light turn on and clamps fasten their feet to the platform. The guards take the empty drink containers from all four of them. Then they wait.

Their guards ignore them as the wall opposite slides back to a reveal a screen. On it, they can see the Arena. The main field looks like a larger version of their training room, while the boxes they had previously been fighting in have melted together and have formed a crystalline dome atop the Arenas walls. In front of the screen, the Wraith crowd together and start making bets.

“What are they even betting for?” Rodney asks Teyla.

“They hope to attain better seats for the next fights. Or exchange duties, mostly,” Teyla answers quietly.

On the screen, it starts. Two teams stand at opposite ends of the Arena, ready on their bikes. Activating their ribbons, one team blue and the other orange, they begin. The Wraith jeer and stomp as the first bike crashes, extinguishing its ribbon. John closes his eyes. If the Wraith want him to watch, he refuses.

The match doesn’t last that long.

When the platform judders, John reaches for his tags before remembering that they’re not there. He doesn’t have a gun either so he curls and uncurls his fingers instead. A hand reaches for his, squeezing once before releasing him again. He sends Teyla a grateful look.

They rise into the Arena to a renewed stomping. The debris from the previous match dissolves into the air, the changes rippling around them. It’s the closest thing to wind or weather this place has. The platform clicks into place and their bikes light up.

Rodney doesn’t need to be told get started. He has his disc ready in front of him, holographic dust spinning and weaving as he waves his hand. John still doesn’t really understand the details, but he knows he’s getting into the bike’s systems and changing their parameters. Fooling them into thinking the whole of the Grid is the Arena, he’d put it as.

Their feet are released.

“That was too fast,” John says. They need to have all four bikes hacked before they start, otherwise they have to wait until the next lightcycle round to try this. _If_ they survive that long.

“Look,” Teyla points. In the centre of the field some left over ribbons are still dissolving. Their opponents are already going for their bikes, extracting the bar and preparing to jump on.

“McKay,” John urges, moving to stand between him and the field.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” Rodney says, irate.

Ronon and Teyla take up equally protective positions, flanking them.

Twenty-three painfully strung out breaths later Rodney looks up, the dust finally settling into a model bike in front of them. “All done,” Rodney says.

“Not a moment too soon,” Ronon mutters. Behind them, they can hear engines revving.

John rushes to his bike and pulls the stick from its depths. Beside him the others do the same. The other team streaks towards them across the field. As they turn in formation, they activate their orange light ribbons. Flashy.

The four of them stand ready. There’s Rodney, strong and brilliant and who he needs to bring home. But he’s grown attached to Teyla and Ronon, too. In his mind they’ve become people he wants to keep close and needs to keep safe. Ronon, who holds more than meets the eye beneath the surface, but always has an easy smile ready for his friends. And Teyla, who does everything with delicate grace and deliberation and won’t hesitate to pull a punch when it’s called for (she’s knocked him on his ass plenty during training.) The four of them stand together. “Same team,” John says.

“Same team,” Rodney repeats, then Ronon, and finally Teyla.

They all run and jump into their bikes as the other team reach the edge of the field and turn back. Behind them, their ribbons click on, blue as Earth’s summer sky. Like the walls of a maze, the solid strips of orange divide them. John slips down into the lower level the first chance he can. Their objective isn’t to win, but to reach the arch at the edge of the field. It’s saved for the queen’s entrance at the end of the tournament. She steps onto the floor of the Arena herself to crown the champion. It also presents them with a way out of the arena.

Ronon had told them about an escape attempt from many years ago. One contestant had taken out her own team after the match and had flung herself at the arch at full speed. The bike had dissolved beneath her, returning to its compact form. After that, she had been made an example of.

John spots Teyla and turns to meet her. Up above, Ronon has already taken out one of the other team. They turn again, and John spots Rodney being crowded by two bikes. If they keep this up, they’ll run him all the way to edge and get him to crash into the wall. He looks at Teyla. She nods to tell him she’s seen it, too. They take the next ramp back up.

John knows just the thing to get Rodney out. If his suit responds to thoughts, chances are it might affect the bike, too. Getting close, he tries to clear his mind. He jumps right over the ribbon of light and into the remaining space. Through the helmets and windshields, Rodney gives him a perplexed look. Then Rodney switches his ribbon off. What is he doing?

Teyla has veered off, too, joining Ronon in clearing a ribboned path for them to the Arch. The ribbons don’t last forever, otherwise they’d cover the field too fast for a long and entertaining match. Around them, the crowd boos, confused at why they’re not fighting like you’re supposed to in a lightcycle match.

Suddenly, Rodney drops away completely. Craning his neck, John sees that he’s deactivated his bike. The ribbon only goes up to his waist, and he’s—oh, that’s clever. With the other two distracted, he can climb over the ribbon and reactivate his bike. As long as he’s fast about it, he’ll be fine.

John slams his brakes, then deactivates his ribbon and bike. He jumps the same wall Rodney has. Across the field, Teyla and Ronon are driving to cut their remaining opponents off, having got bored and taken care of the two who they’d been boxing in. The other two slip into the lower level, but Teyla and Ronon don’t pursue. John jumps back onto his bike, and follows Rodney. They all fall into line behind him, headed towards the opening.

They’ve almost made it. From there it’s a straight run to the forest and the Gate.

The Arch overhead blocks out the majority of the noise. Their lights dim automatically, and John is flooded with a sense of relief. The code works. Their bikes are solid and fast beneath them. This part of their plan is sound.

They’re going to make it.

It only takes a few seconds for them to emerge from the tunnel. They speed out of the Arena and straight into the waiting arms of a semi-circle of darts.

John struggles against the Wraith holding him as he’s marched through the corridors in the upper levels of the Arena. He stops after a zap from one of their stun batons, low enough to hurt but not enough to knock him out. Rodney, Teyla and Ronon are behind him, each with their own guard and additional Wraith in front and behind them.

They cross into a part of the building where the walls change from the sleek, slightly reflective slate to the veined, fleshy feeling walls of the darts. At least it doesn’t smell as gross as it looks, but the ground underfoot is springy, like moss on a forest floor.

The large chamber they’re led to has a seat on a platform: another throne on which the queen sits. Her outfit is different, but just as dramatic as the last time. Looking at her more closely, John sees that her spiky tattoo curves from her cheek down her neck and beneath the hard casing of her bodice. She greets them with a snarl, revealing rows of long, pointy teeth like a shark’s.

“You fools thought you could escape,” she says, rising from her seat. “Even our champion. How disappointing. Kneel.”

The guards behind John lets go of him to push him roughly to the ground. He hears the click of his disc detaching as he catches himself on his hands. Faintly, he remembers that the last person who had tried to escape had had an example made out of her. The others follow suit. John meets Rodney’s eyes. He looks terrified.

A cold finger under his chin drags him up until his face is positioned right in front of a particularly dangerous looking spike. The queen looks down at him. The floor is hard, and he’s grateful for his suit’s kneeguards. He wants to do something stupid, like yank on her ankles to topple her or try to take the stun baton from the guard behind him. She lets him go, snapping her fingers. A dribble of warmth down his throat tells him her claws drew blood.

“Let’s see,” she says, taking his disc from a guard. Her hand expertly manipulates the glowing dust that appears and suddenly John freezes, the world outside his head receding as if someone had turned down the volume on everything.

He tries to move, his whole body shaking and vibrating incrementally. It gets easier when he focuses on moving one muscle group at a time. He’s getting close to moving a finger when he’s suddenly released. “Not him.”

The queen moves on to Ronon next. John breathes heavily, gratified to be able to twitch his nose and shift his weight. She goes through the same procedure with Ronon, using his disc to freeze him and trawling through the swirling code. What is she looking for? “No.”

Then it’s Rodney’s turn. He looks up at her, eyes wide, gulping in fear. Heavy hands on John’s shoulders keep him down when he moves to stand, more reflex than decision. Out of all of them, Rodney is the most vulnerable. He’s not had the same training, whether on base or through experience. John thinks no lesser of him for it. They’re all vulnerable here, Rodney just that bit more. It’s only natural for him to be so protective.

“He’s the one,” the queen says, releasing Rodney but continuing to look through his disc. “Who are you… McKay?”

“That’s really not that important, is it? I mean—”

“Silence,” the queen hisses. She’s going through Rodney’s memories, far faster than Ronon that gone through his.

“Plans to escape… and oh, how perfect.” The queen smiles, wide and predatory.

 _Shit._ The guard’s hands are too heavy on his shoulders. He could swing his body from out under them, but then there are still two Wraith between him and Rodney. And then there’s the queen and the other guards.

“We have total dominion over this universe,” she continues. “But we have long been stopped from extending our reach to your worlds.”

“You already control the Gates,” Ronon protests.

Ignoring him, the queen continues to focus on Rodney. “You will hack the Gate for us. You will open up the galaxy, and we will make it our dominion.”

Beneath them, the ground begins to rumble. There are no windows, but John feels the familiar weightlessness followed by a sharp jolt of gravity reasserting itself. The queen has a ship. A ship significantly bigger than any of the darts, judging by how many fleshy corridors they’d walked down.

“I won’t,” Rodney says, all steel.

“Yes, you will.”

Suddenly, the glowing dust above Rodney’s disc disperses.

“You won’t find out anything more from me,” Rodney says, chin defiant as he juts it out. He unleashes all his anger and frustration into his words. Unbidden, a tiny part of John’s heart melts. It’s not obvious at first sight, but underneath his bluster, Rodney is the kind of courageous John used to believe was only real in stories. He’s standing his ground. Pride flickers in John’s chest.

“You won’t control me, or use me,” Rodney continues.

“No, I won’t,” the queen agrees. Motioning to the guard holding the other discs, she exchanges Rodney’s for John’s.

John doesn’t know how Rodney got the queen to stop looking at his disc. He scrunches his eyes up really tight and tries to focus on his connection with this disc. _Don_ _’t look at me,_ he wills. _Disperse!_

He doesn’t feel anything happen.

Opening his eyes again, he sees a memory of the training field hovering above his disc. Rodney is explaining his plan to hack the Gate to the group. His face is happy and excited, hands flying around as he emphasises a point. This time the memory comes with audio, distorted and faint, giving away intel. What will happen when she goes back far enough to see Atlantis? Or Earth?

Cold grips at his stomach, sickening and maddening. Wraith are already on their way to Atlantis, but if they travel through the Gate to the Milky Way…

“You wanted to hack the Gate for your friends, but you will hack it for us instead.”

Rodney shakes his head. “I won’t.”

The queen continues to go through John’s memories. There’s a blurry image of Rodney leaning over him, when he’d been attacked by the Iratus bug. Then it’s them and Zelenka in the lab. In contrast to Zelenka, the image of Rodney shines, John’s perspective lingering on Rodney’s lopsided grin. A few flicks of the queen’s wrist and then it’s them in the lab, Rodney halfway through his rant about the possible attack of carnivorous vines if they’re not careful. His mental image of Rodney is still glowing. It’s embarrassing, having his crush paraded in front of everyone.

“Where is this?” The queen demands.

The next memory she brings up is the first time they entered the Gate room, then there’s flashes of Earth, of cities and crowds.

“You will open the Gate and take us to Atlantis, McKay, or we will kill your friends.”

As if on cue, another prisoner is brought into the room. He’s a Wraith, John notices with a shock, one of their own people. His outfit is different, his hair unkempt. His hands are shackled in front of him. When he looks up, it’s with tired and desperate eyes.

“Bring in one of the losers,” the queen commands.

Amtem is dragged into the room, still wearing her helmet. “Please! I’ll fight better next time, I promise.”

She’s pushed to her knees in front of the other prisoner, still begging. The queen herself unlocks the prisoner’s manacles, allowing him to withdraw one hand. Without a sound, he reaches out to touch Amtem’s chest. The suits peels back so that his hand can touch the space between her collarbones. She screams, shudders, then collapses onto the floor. The lights in her suit flicker and shut off. She’s dead.

The queen reshackles the prisoner’s hand. He doesn’t protest, just hisses.

“You _will_ open the Gate when we arrive,” the queen repeats, her hands on the prisoner’s shackles in a cold hearted promise.

They’re taken to a cell for the duration of the journey. There are no seats, and instead of straight, metal bars there’s a weird, web like configuration of what feels like bone. John throws himself against it unsuccessfully, Teyla and Ronon helping; Rodney, too. It makes no difference. The material is definitely harder than bone. They’re trapped for now.

John sits while Rodney paces, babbling. “I’m not even sure I can hack the Gate to let us out, but it sounds like they’re not supposed to leave and—why would I help them? They want to kill people. All people. With their literal life sucking hands!” He shakes his own open palm for emphasis.

Belatedly, the pieces in John’s head click into place with icy certainty “So when you say culling…” John starts.

“The Wraith go to a human planet and feed off the population,” Teyla confirms.

“That’s how they feed?” Rodney looks disgusted.

“That’s seriously messed up,” John says. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“We’d never seen it, not in here,” Ronon says.

“We had hoped,” Teyla says, choosing her words with deliberation, “that they would not need to. There is no way that our small number could sustain so many.”

“She’s right,” Rodney agrees. “Especially not for 10,000 years.”

“So what? They’re not all real?”

“Real?” Teyla asks.

“Like us,” John shrugs. “You know, you cut me, I bleed.”

“Not even the queen is real,” a deep voice from the next cell says.

“I thought we were the only ones here!” Rodney exclaims.

“I have been here so long that I may as well have been forgotten.”

“Who are you?” Teyla asks.

“A prisoner, like you.”

Rodney’s got that look in his eye, the one John knows means he’s just figured something out. “How many were there at first?”

“Thousands,” the voice rasps. “It wasn’t long until we turned on each other.”

Ronon pulls a face, while Teyla looks pensive. Rodney clicks his fingers, delighted. “They were trapped in here! That explains everything. Their ability to manipulate the environment but not leave, the control the queen has over the rest… and the logs. The Ancients must have been fighting them, and in their last stand, trapped them.”

Ronon huffs and sits down. “Too bad they didn’t get them all.”

“Wait— _we_?” John asks.

“I am the last one,” the voice replies. “They would kill me if they could.”

Teyla frowns. “Why do they not?”

“They need me.”

“If they’re programs, can they leave?” John asks, turning to Rodney.

Rodney hums. “Well, the Gate doesn’t have their info stored in it the way we do when we came in, but I don’t see why not, if the Gate is coded for it.”

“They’ll kill all of us,” Ronon says, deadpan.

Rodney rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously not actually, but in theory.”

“We cannot let them escape,” Teyla adds.

Grimly, John nods. “We need a new plan. Hey, stranger, you got any skills?”

“I’m too weak to fight,” the voice replies.

They all look at each other. The only way for him to gain more strength is to feed.

Teyla leans in close to John and Rodney. “A Wraith who has recently fed has an augmented healing process. They are much stronger and faster.”

“Harder to kill,” Ronon adds in a whisper of his own.

Teyla raises her eyebrows in agreement.

“Obviously we’re not going to let him feed on us—or anyone else,” Rodney says.

“A shame,” the other prisoner says, amused.

He needs to call him something that’s not ‘the other prisoner’, so he settles on Todd. If he was human, John would offer him a way out.

Rodney has more questions for Todd, but Todd gets annoyed or bored (kind of hard to tell) and withdraws, claiming he needs to rest. Teyla and Ronon decide to do the same, laying down away from the bars. John is too wired to try to sleep, so he’s sat cross legged by the wall when Rodney comes and joins him, having given up on getting Todd to talk for now.

“The Wraith are life sucking vampires the Ancients couldn’t defeat,” Rodney whispers.

“They just dumped them in here instead.”

“It almost ended the war in one fell swoop, expect it shut down the Gates and well… and then they wrote themselves into programs when they realised they were dying.”

“How does that even work?”

“I don’t know.”

“There are still Wraith left in the real world.” Amtem had screamed in agony. He doesn’t wish that on any of the expedition members, even Sumner. “And they’re headed towards Atlantis.”

Rodney clutches at his own arms. “They know about Earth. We can’t let them escape.”

John pats the nearest part of Rodney he can reach awkwardly. “We won’t. We’ll do what we have to.”

“Even—”

“If it comes to that. But plan A is us getting out.”

“Surely we’re on plan B by now, or C or D…”

John smiles faintly. Plan F, for fucked up beyond all recognition. “We’re almost at the Gate. They’re going to force you to hack it, is there something you can do?”

Teyla turns her head to face them. “John is right. It is the perfect opportunity for subterfuge.” Then she turns back, letting the pretend wall of privacy between them rebuild itself.

“I suppose…” Rodney hesitates. “It all depends on what the system is like. We still don’t know how they let the Wraith ships through and not anyone else.”

John wets his lips. His mind is spinning, but it isn’t generating any ideas.

“There’s uh, there’s something else. I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” John says. Rodney is jutting his chin out again. That’s his move for asserting he’s right or… being brave.

“When the queen was looking through your memories, I saw… myself. Is that really how you see me?”

John doesn’t know what to say to that. Rodney had looked how he always looks. In most of the memories he was wearing his beige expedition jacket or tight sky blue shirt that emphasised his shoulders, nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s how you are.”

“No, but I looked…” Rodney swallows. “Different.”

“Brave? Smart? Handsome? Because that’s what I see.” John drinks the sight of Rodney in, badly lit by the lighting in the cell, but close and personal all the same. He wants to touch him, to feel the unbearable softness and warmth of his skin. John thinks that perhaps he wanted Rodney from the very start, but just didn’t know it yet. He’d looked so cosy in his fleece, even as the icy cold had sunk right through John.

Rodney shakes as John reaches for him. “Look, I’m not making a move, it’s just the truth.”

Truth is that Rodney McKay is nothing that John could have ever expected or imagined, but as much as he has a crush, he wants to be his friend. Right now, Rodney really looks like he could use one.

But instead of pulling away, Rodney reaches back, tugging at his breastplate. Then Rodney kisses him.

John freezes. He’d thought—but Rodney’s lips moving against his make a very compelling argument that he’d been wrong. He kisses back. As Rodney lips move against his, his stomach unwinds, warmth trickling through him. This is something that’s no different in the Grid than it is in the real world. The hair at the nape of Rodney’s neck feels good between his fingers, the skin of his ear soft and vulnerable beneath his thumb.

When Rodney withdraws, John chases him, opening his eyes again as he realises he’s mouthing at air.

“I’ve just had a brilliant idea!” Rodney whispers. He pulls up glowing dust from the ship and begins to hack. John rocks back on his heels, a new warmth radiating through his body.

**Part 4**

**Rectify**

The guards retrieve them from their cell as the ship begins its descent. They’re marched through the corridors and out a ramp that extends from the belly of the ship like a tongue. John’s glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet. The clearing is as he remembers it; the ashes from the fire they’d started are undisturbed.

The ship illuminates the clearing with its bioluminescent veins and patches. Manipulating the air, the queen waves her arms upwards and a short plinth like apparatus rises out of the ground.

“The DHD!” Rodney says.

“This is what you will hack,” the queen says. “Or your friends will die!”

Behind them, Todd is dragged out of the ship.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” John tries.

“Hunger has no friends or enemies,” Todd says. He can barely stand on his own two feet. He must have been close to death before he’d fed on Amtem.

John reaches out to squeeze Rodney’s shoulder from where he’s stood behind him. As he lets go again, Rodney catches his hand, squeezing it before releasing his grip and walking towards the queen.

“Don’t you dare hurt them,” Rodney says.

“Set us free and no harm will come to them.”

She’s lying. From the look in Todd’s eye, he knows it, too.

Rodney stretches out both his hands and tugs, bringing up a more complicated system of spinning dust than John has previously seen. Rodney doesn’t have much time to hack the Gate. It won’t be long until the cascade failure he set up on the ship will tip and blow sky high. John had helped him identify weak spots, but had spent most of the time theorising about how this Hive compares to ones back in the outside world. They can’t be certain the explosion will take out all of the Wraith in the clearing, the queen and her inner guard aren’t linked to the ship like the others. Those left behind are less complicated programs with only basic functional parameters; just more bodies to boost the queen’s illusion of power.

“Faster!” The queen demands.

“You’ve waited 10,000 years, what’s the rush? I have to do this properly!” Rodney spares a moment to glare at her.

The dust whirls. It forms a Stargate, then a map of the galaxy, lines forming between stars. Those must be the locations of the frozen Gates.

“Uh oh,” Rodney says.

Instinctively, John moves closer. The guards notice too late. Teyla and Ronon join him by Rodney’s side. “What is it?”

“Restrain them!” The queen yells.

The guards close in. John grabs his disc, ready to fight. Then the ship explodes. Dust erupts and fills the air, swirling and pulsing, the majority of the guards dispersing and joining the fog. A body thumps against the ground somewhere behind them—Todd.

“The Gates—they’ve locked them with DNA. They—they transmit the code to the Hive ships in the real world to grow it into their ships.”

John moves into position, keeping his centre of gravity low as he bends his knees, ready to confront the queen. “Whose DNA?”

“Todd’s.”

“Then we’ll persuade him to help.”

The queen unclicks her own disc. Holding it out in front of her, she twists her hands and splits it into two. It’s her and two remaining guards facing down him, Teyla and Ronon.

Except that Rodney’s still hacking the Gate and they somehow need Todd’s DNA. Turning to Teyla, he offers her his disc.

“What are you doing?” Ronon asks, eyes fixed on the queen.

“We need Todd.”

Teyla takes his disc, nodding.

John hears the humming of disc clashing against disc as he runs to where Todd fell. He’s been crawling away on his elbows, heaving his body along the ground slowly, but he hasn’t got far.

“Hey, you want to get out here?” John asks, tugging at his shoulder to get him to face John.

“You would help me even though you know that once I return I will feed?” Todd asks.

“We need you, you need us. Call it a temporary truce.”

Todd narrows his eyes. “What do you need?”

“Just some hair.”

“You’ll have to help me to the Gate.”

John supports Todd’s weigh and they walk back towards Rodney. Ronon and Teyla are circling the queen. They deliver the killing blow in unison. She howls as she disperses.

“Ronon, I’ve found your address,” Rodney says.

Teyla returns his disc to him, and John uses its edge to hack off a lock of Todd’s hair.

Ronon takes it uncertainly. “This will really work?”

“Yes, yes it will!” Rodney says, voice strained. He’s sweating as if he’d just run a mile. Freeing one hand from the dust, Rodney dials the Gate. It doesn’t spin like the one of Earth had. The glyphs light up instead, causing a ripple of light through the clearing and into the forest. The phenomenon must be programmed, a warning signal for when someone enters or leaves the Grid.

Pausing only to look at the three of them, Ronon runs towards the eye. As he goes through it, the Gate spins and Rodney buckles.

Teyla rushes to his side. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Rodney grits his teeth and reconnects his hands to the dust, calming it again.

“Did Ronon make it through?”

“Something’s wrong at the other end. He made it through, I just don’t know where he’s ended up.”

John swallows the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. Their plan was for Rodney to memorise Teyla and Ronon’s Gate addresses so that once it was safe they could dial in from Atlantis. But now they have no idea where Ronon is.

“We’ll find him,” John promises. “You can find out where’s he’s gone from the other side, right?”

“Maybe.” Rodney sways again.

“We don’t leave people behind,” John says, conviction and adrenaline burning through him.

“We will find him,” Teyla agrees.

“Oh, I’ve found Athos,” Rodney says, glyphs shimmering in and out of focus in the dust. They look different than the ones on the Gate in the city. Encrypted, or renamed perhaps.

“Is it safe?” Teyla asks.

Rodney does something complicated with his hands. “Yes.”

Teyla gives them both a sombre smile and John hands her a lock of Todd’s hair. “See you soon.”

When she runs through the eye the Gate doesn’t spin and John lets out a sigh of relief.

“Ok, find Todd’s Gate next,” John says. He cuts two more locks of hair, one for him and one for Rodney.

“What? Why?”

“Tit for tat.”

John half walks, half drags Todd towards the Gate. He doesn’t know if Todd will even have the strength to find someone and kill them on the other side. Maybe his Gate is broken and Rodney isn’t saying anything as he dials. John tries not to think about the blood already staining his hands.

“I didn’t expect you to keep your word,” Todd admits once they’re at the Gate.

John smiles with one side of his mouth. “The next time we meet—”

“It will be as enemies. Thank you, Sheppard.” Then Todd lets himself fall through the eye, still shackled, still hungry.

John jogs back to the DHD. Rodney looks unsteady, like he might faint.

“Have you unblocked our address?”

“Yes, but… if we dial back, we might lose our ability to dial to the Milky Way.”

The bottom of John’s stomach drops. “What?”

“It’s a failsafe. If the Wraith ever escaped again…”

“Then Earth would be safe.” And they might never see it again. Home, gone forever.

“I don’t know if I can reverse this once it’s done.” Rodney looks stricken.

“We knew we might never return when we left.”

“But this could be final.”

“They could send a ship—” John shakes his head. “We don’t know what might happen. But right now the Wraith could be in Atlantis. They need the intel we’ve learnt to survive an attack.” _If they haven_ _’t already perished,_ he doesn’t say.

“Right, right.” Rodney does something complicated with his hands and the Gate dials, but falters halfway through.

Rodney yells in pain.

“Rodney!” John’s plastered at his side in a second.

“I—I’m fine. I just can’t…”

John takes a breath. “Maybe it needs two people.”

“What?”

“Well, when we first… came here, the machine needed the two of us.”

Rodney nods. His voice is tight, strained. “We’ll go together.”

John reaches for his waist to steady him as they approach the Gate. Carefully, John wraps one of the locks of hair around Rodney’s wrist, securing the ends between his palm and thumb even though Rodney is perfectly capable of doing so on his own. Then he wraps his own around his wrist in the same way.

He looks up to find Rodney looking at him. Rodney takes John’s hand in his and they step through the Gate together.

They emerge into the Gate room still holding hands. The boxes of supplies have all been cleared, but only two marines thunder down the steps to greet them. John lets go of Rodney’s hand, but not before giving it a squeeze. They’re back in the real world.

John recognises one of the marines—Lieutenant Ford. They’re both looking at John and Rodney in confusion. At least the Wraith haven’t taken the city, that’s a good sign.

“What’s our status?” John asks, putting all the rank and experience he can muster into his voice.

“We’re being attacked by the ship we picked up on our scanners,” Ford answers. “Good to see you, sir.”

“Likewise. Where’s Doctor Weir?”

“In the control room. Uh, what’s with the outfit?”

“Long story. We need to…” John points.

They run up to the control room.

“Rodney! Major!” Weir looks relieved to see them. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“Turns out we’re not so easy to get rid of,” Rodney says, sounding pleased with himself. He all but falls into the nearest chair.

Weir spares him a smile mixed with concern before turning to John. “We lost Marshall Sumner. You’re in charge of the military now, Major Sheppard.”

Sumner and his teams wouldn’t have stood a chance against a fully equipped Hive. John had suspected as much, but the knowledge hits him anew. He hadn’t got the chance to like Sumner and now he was gone, leaving John with a command he’d never wanted.

“The city has a shield?” Rodney asks, crouching over one of the laptops linked up to Atlantis’ systems.

“Yes, Zelenka and his team found it. It’s a massive drain on power but—”

An explosion a hundred metres away from the window illustrates her point. On the main screen to the left the shield forms a half dome above the city, deterring weapons fire that rains down from above.

“It won’t hold forever,” Weir finishes. “The science teams are working on a way to weaponise it or other city systems, but progress is slow.”

“It’s definitely a Hive,” Rodney says, spinning the laptop screen around to show them the outline of a massive, pointy dart. It looks bigger and meaner than the ship they’d flown in.

John gets an idea. “Does the city have any drones left? Like the one that almost killed me?”

Rodney looks a tad guilty at John mentioning his and General O’Neill’s near brush with death.

“We recovered a few, but Doctor Carson’s been in a coma since the first attack. No one else is strong enough to get the chair to work.”

“It could use some enhancements then,” Rodney grumbles, but John’s already grabbing his arm, palming a radio to slot into his ear with his other hand.

“We’re taking that ship down.”

They run all the way to the chair room. They hear the noise of more fire from the Wraith above them. When they arrive, John sits down, leaning back as the chair spins into place. The lights in the floor glow, reminding him of the Grid, but nothing else happens.

“What do I do now?”

“I can guide you through this, like in Antarctica. I _am_ an expert on Ancient tech.”

“Okay. What’s first?”

“Visualise the city. Feel it.”

Closing his eyes, he lets himself fall into his connection with the chair. It’s a hundred time more intense than being linked up to a Puddlejumper. On Earth, he’d been poking at the surface. The chair hadn’t really been linked to anything. But here he feels the whole city expanding from where he’s sat, hundreds of lifelines interconnecting, leading to consoles and lights, weapons and defences, life support and engines—not just a city, but a ship.

“Next I need you to find city’s defences.” Rodney’s voice rings through his mind clearly. He feels the answering warmth in his stomach, and, he realises, from Atlantis herself, too.

He swims through the connections in his mind towards where he feels steel and armour. There’s nothing visual, or anything he can interpret in a sensory manner. It’s internal and abstract, like feeling an echo of touch or memory. “I found the drones!”

“Great, now you just have to visualise how you’re going to attack the ship. It’s best to use something familiar.”

John imagines a Viper’s targeting system.

“That’s great, you’ve almost done it. Remember, you’ll need to guide the drone all the way to its destination. Uh, fire when ready.”

Something in his stomach relaxes. He takes a moment. Lines the shot up. As he fires two of five drones, he piggybacks onto them, following them with his mind. He saw the ship in the Grid and knows where to aim them to take out its engines.

“We got it!” John exclaims, opening his eyes as the twin explosions reverberate through his mind.

The confirmation comes through on his radio seconds later. He brings the chair back up into a sitting position.

“Nice shooting,” Rodney says, stepping up onto the platform. He kisses John full on the mouth, nipping at his bottom lip dirtily. He twists his hand into John’s hair and John clutches at the nearest part of Rodney he can reach. The kiss is brief, but intense. Rodney looks shy when he pulls away, but pleased. John knows he’s grinning, the goofy wide one with all his teeth, but he’s past caring. They saved the city. Rodney wants him back.

The radio in his ear crackles. “Major Sheppard, Doctor McKay, well done!”

Back in the control room Weir dismisses them but promises an in depth debrief in the morning. Rodney offers him a tired smile before they part ways, Zelenka dragging him off because of something to do with the shield being on fire. John doesn’t want to know if he means it figuratively or literally. The last thing he hears is Rodney demanding coffee.

John walks back to barracks, ready to sleep for a week—or at least a full, indulgent ten hours.

It’s a near thing, but Ford points him in the direction of what are now his quarters.

They’re huge and face the ocean and best of all there’s a bed with a proper mattress and a soft cover. There’s an ensuite where he leaves the suit that he can finally (finally!) remove. He showers, the warm water washing away how wrong he feels from not sweating, not eating, not _anything._ It helps. His eyelids droop and the tiny bed is his new favourite place he decides. As he drifts off, holding the fluffy cover between his arms, he remembers the press of Rodney’s lips against his. John thinks that he’ll like waking up here.

The atmosphere in the control room is anticipatory as John and Weir crowd around Rodney dialling the address to Athos, Teyla’s planet. It’s taken them a couple of days to safeguard the Gate systems to make sure no one accidentally lands in the Grid. They can still access it, this time on purpose, but only with a specific Gate address. Weir is already considering plans as to how to proceed, and John’s time has been split between keeping the newborn operation in the city running and freaking out about what to do about the Wraith. There’s barely been any time to look for—much less spend with—Rodney, but they did get twenty glorious minutes to themselves when the transporter they’d been in had broken.

“Okay, here we go,” Rodney mutters. The buttons depress and light up, each of them making a _thunk_ sound.

The Gate spins and spins and when Rodney hits the final one, the eye opens.

“Is the MALP ready to go?” John asks.

“Ready, sir!” Ford enthuses over the radio.

“Send it in.”

John braces for the robot to hit against the eye, but it goes through without a hitch and relays a clear image from its camera feed to the screen in the control room. The planet, quite frankly, looks pretty boring: a grass clearing surrounded by trees. Things get more interesting when the MALP turns around, and a tent pops up. A familiar figure steps out.

“Teyla!” Rodney smiles.

John is two steps behind Rodney as they go down the steps, but Teyla beats them to it, stepping through the eye and into the Gate room. He’s relieved to see her alive and well.

“John! Rodney!”

She goes to Rodney first, cupping his face in her hands and touching their foreheads together. Then it’s John turn.

“It is customary on Athos,” Teyla explains. John lets her angle his head. It only lasts a few seconds, but he closes his eyes. Then it’s over, and Weir is waiting for them in the conference room.

“Come meet our boss.”

“Teyla, I’ve heard much about you,” Weir greets. “I hope our people can be friends.”

“It is always good to have allies, especially against the Wraith.” Teyla shakes Weir’s hand, but the set of her shoulders remains cautious.

“Major Sheppard has informed me of the situation. He wants to lead a team back into the Grid to try and retrieve more information about your missing team member.”

He’d also told her about his plans to invite Teyla and Ronon to join the city’s first reconnaissance team.

“We will find Ronon,” Teyla says.

“The modifications to allow the Gate to dial into the Grid safely should be ready tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Teyla says and smiles, wide and true.

“After that, you and your people are more than welcome in Atlantis. Whatever assistance we can offer, trade, support…” Weir smiles. “You only need ask.”

“There’s a place on my team for you, if you want it,” John adds. He’d asked Rodney over breakfast, still nervous despite being sure he would say yes. He did say yes, and had given John a peck on the cheek for good measure.

Teyla nods. “There is much to discuss once we have found Ronon, me with my people and us with you. The power of Atlantis and the use of the Gates gives us great strength against the Wraith.”

“Of course. There’s just one more thing. I’m coming with you into the Grid.”

“Why?” Rodney asks just as John bites his own tongue.

“In your report you mentioned that a lot of the older coding was in Ancient. I’m the only person here who can read it anything close to fluently.”

“It’s your call,” John says.

“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John lets Rodney and Teyla leave before he does. He doesn’t quite understand Weir yet, but he’s glad she’s the one giving the orders. What it will be like with her in the field he can’t predict. John jogs a few steps to catch up with Rodney and Teyla.

“Have you learned how you were able to control parts of the Grid?” Teyla asks as Rodney leads her into the lab on the floor below. He’s claimed this one for his personal use now that his department has their own, far bigger lab in the inner city.

“We think that because I was the one touching the crystal when we first went in, I activated some kind of imprinting mechanism. Probably designed so that when the Ancient designer first went in they could play god.”

“Your ego is already large enough without comparing yourself to a deity,” Zelenka says, falling into step.

“I’d be very fair. I’d invest in infrastructure. They’d have plenty of good reason to worship me,” Rodney sniffs.

John laughs, and marvels at right it feels.

John spends a lot of the day showing Teyla around. They go on the range the marines have set up, and she makes him spar with her, hand to hand. He’s made sure quarters are ready for her, even if she only stays in Atlantis long enough to find Ronon. She’s been apart from her people for a long time, but John wants her to know there a place for her in Atlantis, too.

Rodney’s still busy running from place to place, helping undo damage from the city’s stand against the Hive ship as well as the usual amount of TLC a 10,000 year old Ancient city needs. He gives up looking for him the fifth time he’s redirected somewhere else, and figures that Rodney knows where he lives.

Later he shows Teyla the cafeteria and introduces her to Ford, but leaves once he finishes his own meal. After that he unpacks all his belongings and rearranges them in his room at least five times. He could have found time to do it yesterday, or the day before, but it feels right that he does it now, with Teyla here and the promise that tomorrow they will start looking for Ronon. He’s staring down his unopened copy of War and Peace, wondering if he should really be making a headstart on it, when his door chimes.

John stands and palms it open.

“Can I come in?” Rodney asks, empty handed and exhausted.

“Sure.”

Once the door closes John reaches for Rodney, enjoying how he can run his palms along his forearms, past the soft skin in the crook of his elbow and all the way up to tease fingers beneath the edge of Rodney’s shirt.

“Hi,” John says, just for them.

“I heard you were looking for me.” Rodney rests his hands comfortably on John’s hips. This thing between them is still new, but they fit together comfortably. “You could have radioed.”

“I could have, but I wanted to see you.”

“I’m here now.”

And John sees him. The relaxed slant of his brow above unfairly long lashes, the line of his nose that leads down towards his lips; the mole by his jaw and the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, all the composite pieces of a face that shines out to John like a beacon. He feels him, the warm press of skin over fat over muscle; a sturdy grip around his hips that feels strong and pleasant. And when Rodney moves to close the gap between them, excitement trills through John, sweet and heady, unmarked by the siren song of danger. He’s safe here.

The first kiss is gentle, a press of lips that invites John to kiss Rodney again. And then again and again.

Rodney kisses with confidence. John had half feared the stiff shouldered arrogance to make a return, but Rodney’s at ease, caressing John’s face with the backs of his fingers and kissing with a soft intensity.

They move to sit on the bed, but Rodney keeps their hands between them, still affectionate but pausing. Rodney’s someone who needs words.

“I keep thinking, what if there’s something I missed? What if there was a way to keep the link to the Milky Way open?” The eighth control crystal has become atavistic, but they still keep it under lock and key, another layer of safety if it comes to the worst.

“If there is a way to regain the connection, you’ll find it when we go back in.” John’s not all too sure he wants the link restored. Primarily because the broken Gate represents a certain measure of safety from the Wraith for Earth, but there are also more private and selfish reasons. John doesn’t know he will fare as commander of the military, but with no connection to Earth he doesn’t have to fear the brass. He’s spent his whole life feeling like running from all the versions of himself he wasn’t, from the good son to the absent husband to the obedient soldier who leaves his men behind to die.

“What if I can’t? I never… there’s so many things I’ll never get to do. I know we all have things like that but…”

“It still hurts.” John squeezes Rodney’s hands. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know if there is anything you can do. That anyone can. All those things we almost had to do in there, that Teyla and Ronon had to do…”

“I know. I’m with you,” John replies, wrapping his arms around Rodney and cradling him from behind. Danger leaves its imprint, whether you escape the worst of it or not. Rodney hangs onto him. John doesn’t mind. It’s staggering, going from not touching anyone except in an emergency to being able to reach out so casually.

“I’m here for you, too. If you ever want to talk about… it. Any of it.”

Then Rodney’s quiet for a while. John sits with him, his mind going over dangers and to-dos until finally, he can’t think of anything further that’s immediate and obstinate. There’s a million what-ifs buzzing on the horizon of his thoughts, but the weight of Rodney against him is relaxing. He lets himself live in the action of breathing; that steady and in an out.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

“No.”

Rodney turns around. “Good.”

Then Rodney kisses him, slow and dirty, holding John’s jaw in place one handed. John lets himself fall against his pillow, softness behind him and slow, sparking pleasure radiating from everywhere Rodney touches him. A hand untucks John’s shirt and begins exploring, mapping out the hair on his stomach and chest, tracing his thumb down into the valley of his bellybutton and along the ridges of his nipples. His touch is warm and balmy, chasing tension away and leaving a trail of pleasure in its wake. Rodney keeps kissing him, all tongue and a tickle of stubble and a steady weight that lets him drift. John moans as he feels Rodney’s cock press against his thigh, hard and wanting.

They lose their shirts soon after. John’s eager to touch, holding onto Rodney’s sides as he kisses his way up his chest, paying close attention to his collarbones, his neck, then his prickly jaw and, finally, lips again. “John,” Rodney pants, grasping at his belt loops to drag him close.

The friction makes him shake inside his mind, part disbelief and part relief. Rodney’s cheek is rough against his, reassuring. Then Rodney’s tugging his belt off, and it’s a blur of hands and clothes and they’re laying fully naked, squeezed next to each other on the bed.

“You’re beautiful,” John breathes, reaching around to palm Rodney’s ass.

Unwilling to meet his eyes again, Rodney curls his fingers around both his own and John’s cock. He starts loose and slow, leaning forward to pepper John with butterfly kisses and hot pants of breath as his rhythm builds. It’s not long until he climaxes, overwhelmed by Rodney’s proximity and the unexpected ways Rodney’s hand strokes and twists. Rodney holds him through it, hand curled around the junction of his neck and shoulder like a promise as he babbles. John can’t make out the words, but the timbre of his voice soaks through him, familiar and comforting.

The pleasure dampens back to a floaty haze. Without opening his eyes, John finds Rodney’s chin and then his mouth with his own. “I got you,” John whispers. Taking over from Rodney, he strokes him over the edge.

Later, Rodney lays on top of him and under the clean side of his sheets. It’s not really that comfortable, but the expanse of a warm and sated Rodney pressed against him more than makes up for it. Out the window the ocean stirs and crests, blue and familiar.

John doesn’t know how this thing between them will affect their life on Atlantis, but he knows that he no longer feels cold and numb down to his bones. He has a place here, and when Rodney catches his eye he feels like the luckiest man in Pegasus.

“I’m more than ready to find Ronon,” John says to Teyla as they approach the Gate room.

“As am I.”

Rodney and Weir are already there. Rodney is dressed in his suit from the Grid as he and Teyla are. They don’t have their discs here, but Rodney thinks they’ll reappear as soon as they re-enter the Grid. This mission is basic recon. If Rodney’s analysis of the Grid from the outside is right, they’ll push on to get Weir a suit and disc, and then start looking for Ronon. From the inside, Rodney should be able to trace the entire network of frozen Gates and get a better idea of how many Wraith are actually out there. It’s a start, if nothing else.

Peter looks up from a binder he’s halfway through reading. “Isn’t there a rule about how the highest ranking officers shouldn’t all be leaving the city at the same time?”

John meets Weir’s gaze before she replies. “Well, we’ll technically be in Atlantis, right?”

“Right,” John smiles, something wobbling in his chest. She barely knows him, but she trusts him just enough. Maybe she’ll even listen when he starts to get difficult, unlike his previous COs.

“Plus, who are you going to report them to?” Chuck grins. “Good luck.”

The other personnel in the Gate room echo the sentiment.

“Alright then,” Weir says, taking her place between Rodney and Teyla. “Lead us in, Major.”

He looks at them each in turn. Weir is resolute and eager. Ford looks excited yet cautious. Teyla looks daunted but determined. And Rodney—Rodney’s looking back at him, reassurance and affection writ all over him. “Yes ma’am.”

John steps forward into the Grid, his friends at his side. Whatever is waiting for them on the other side, they’re ready.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for "Across the Sea of Simulation" by waterfalliam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409005) by [danceswithgary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary)




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